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POCKET  EDITION 

THE     ROMANCES    of 
THEOPHILE    GAUTIER 

Volume  One 


Translated  and  Edited  by 

PROFESSOR  F.   C.   DE  SUMICHRAST 

Department  of  French,  Harvard  University 


W 


MADEMOISELLE 
DE     M  AU  PI  N 

Volume  One 


V 


With  the  Author's  Preface  and  an 

Essay  and  Introduction 

by  the  Editor 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 
1912 

illllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllUIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIKIIIIIIIIIM Illll  ll!lllli!lllll!IM!llllllimill!!lll!!lll! IIIIIIMIIIIIIIIMIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII 


Copyright,   IQOO,   by 
George  D.  Sproul 


UNIVERSITY    PRESS       •     JOHN    WILSON 
AND     SON      •      CAMBRIDGE,     U.S.A. 


E 
I1?  ' 


The  op  hi  I fe  Gautier 


o 


4S9339 

FRENCH 


TH EOPH I LE 

G AUT I ER 

»»*  vw»    vfs*    *»»•    wrs    •**    MtM     wr*     mw    ew    «St»    «*i  «¥•  •<»<•  »W«  •»<•   •*•  »^v»   wo*  «*v»  •*«•    •*•   •*•  *»«• 

THEOPHILE  GAUTIER  was  born  at 
Tarbes,  in  the  South  of  France,  on 
August  30,  181 1, —  the  year  of  the  birth 
of  that  King  of  Rome  who  ended  his 
days  as  Duke  of  Reichstadt  at  the  Austrian  court. 
The  family  of  Gautier  was  of  Southern  origin,  and  came 
from  Avignon,  the  city  of  the  Popes.  The  father,  a 
fanatical  royalist,  had  married  a  tailor's  daughter,  named 
Adelaide-Antoinette  Cocard,  whose  eldest  sister  had 
wedded  the  Count  of  Poudens.  Adelaide  was  a  re- 
markably beautiful  woman,  of  a  cold  and  haughty  mien, 
but  devoted  to  her  son.  Jean-Pierre  Gautier,  the 
father,  was  in  the  Internal  Revenue  service,  and  in 
1 8 14  removed  to  Paris,  where  nostalgia,  one  of  the 
fundamental  traits  of  the  poet's  temperament,  speedily 
developed  in  the  boy.  Young  Gautier  never  forgot  the 
sunny  South ;  he  longed  to  return  to  it,  and  one  dav, 
hearing  some  soldiers  speaking  in  the   Gascon  tongue, 


•1%  •!»  JU  w&*  •&•  JL  JU  •&»  •A»»i»*4»*4»#i»JU»l»#i»»l»«l*ri.JU#l*jU  *|«#I* 

•*•  •'*•    •**    v**    «T<»     •'•'*    **•     •*»     •**•    «T*    •*»    •*•  ""I*   «r«  •*«  «*&>   «£<a   */*a   «*>•   •S*   •»*»    *»»    •«*  •«?• 

THEQPHILE      GAUTIER 

he  begged  them  to  take  him  back  to  the  land  of  his 
birth. 

At  the  age  of  five  he  read  with  ease  and  began  to 
devour  one  book  after  another,  beginning  with  "  Robin- 
son Crusoe,"  and  passing  through  Florian's  u  Estelle 
et  Nemorin  "  to  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre's  "  Paul  et 
Virginie,"  which,  to  the  end,  he  esteemed  a  perfect 
masterpiece.  The  love  of  reading  never  left  him ; 
even  dictionaries  and  encyclopaedias  had  a  charm  for 
him. 

He  was  doomed  to  the  ordinary  fate  of  the  French 
boy  whose  parents  are  ambitious  that  he  should  suc- 
ceed :  life  in  a  college.  The  prison  —  it  was  nothing 
else  in  his  case  —  was  Louis-le-Grand,  named  after 
the  illustrious  monarch  for  whom  Gautier  uniformly 
professed  the  utmost  contempt  and  detestation.  Of  a 
poetic  nature,  of  an  artistic  temperament,  exceedingly 
susceptible  to  the  influence  of  his  surroundings,  depend- 
ent on  affection  and  loving  care,  the  lad,  severed  fron?| 
his  family,  bound  down  by  rigid  rules,  kept  from  that 
freedom  which  he  had  already  learned  to  prize,  was 
unutterably  wretched.  Fortunately  for  him,  his  fatherj 
was  a  man  who  to  wide  reading  and  sovnd  scholarship 
joined  common-sense.      Seeing  the  boy's  unhappiness, 


*!/•*!/•  *IU  *!/•  •*•  •*»  *JU  *JU  #1*  •*•  #A*«fU#J*«J««l«JU»l«  jL»  #i« +A*  «X*  «£•  #£*#£« 

V»v»    vtt*     m    »r#     ».s*     o**     ew»     cr»     «.•>«*     e,.»     •*>»     •»!>■»   w    a*i<*   «««•  «*K»    »m   «.*•   «?«    •»#    tret.     «^vj    w*  <v?# 

THE    MAN    AND     HIS    WORK 


he  withdrew  him  from  Louis-le-Grand  and  entered  him 
as  a  day-pupil  at  Charlemagne,  where,  bar  the  jealousy 
excited  by  his  success  in  study,  his  life  was  pleasanter. 
As  he  proceeded  he  manifested  a  distinct  preference  for 
the  decadent  writers,  such  as  Martial,  Petronius,  and 
Apuleius,  and  a  bent  towards  drawing  and  painting 
which  clearly   indicated  his  vocation. 

Before  he  left  the  lycee  he  was  already  a  pupil  in 
Rioult's  studio,  where  he  had  for  comrades  youths 
who  to  a  man  were  fervent  Romanticists  and  wor- 
shippers of  the  genius  of  Victor  Hugo.  The  same 
influence  was  at  work  in  his  family ;  besides,  his  school 
friend,  Gerard  de  Labrunie,  better  known  as  that 
Gerard  de  Nerval  whose  talents  promised  so  brilliant  a 
career  and  who  ended  so  wretchedly,  belonged  heart 
and  soul  to  the  new  school.  Labrunie  had  early  dis- 
tinguished himself:  at  seventeen  he  had  published  a 
volume  of  verse,  and  his  translation  of  u  Faust  "  had 
brought  him   high  praise  from  the  great  Goethe.      He 

it  was  who  presented  Gautier  to  the  master-poet,  in 
hat  house  of  the  rue  Jean  Goujon,  which  was  soon  to 
,je  abandoned  for  the  historic  mansion  in  the  Place 
Royale.  Hugo  received  the  budding  poet  kindly,  and 
advised  him  to  publish  the  verses  Labrunie  had  praised. 


. 


•£*#**  «JU  »JU  •*»  «4*  •*•  »*»  *s*  •»»f»»4U*i«#i»«l*^»l*^*l^*i«*i^  •§••§•  •«»   ? 

«w  w>#   ««s*   *tj   v»«*    vm   Wm    «t»    «t>«    n»»   wt»   «f*  *i»  *v»  *■*•  **•  *^»  •*•  •**  **<•  «*•  •»•  •**  «*w    v. 

THEOPHILE       GAUTIER' 

, -s 

From   that   day   Hugo  became  to    Gautier   "  the  Real 

Presence  of  Poetry,  as  it  were ;  "  and  when  the  famous  3 
25th  of    February,    1830,  came    round    shortly    after-  j. 
wards,    Gautier   was  elected  to  be  one  of   the  squad  > 
leaders  who  were  to    direct   the   applause  at  the  first  ■ 
performance  of  "  Hernani,"  the  drama  on  which,  rightly  : 
enough,  as  events  proved,  the  followers  of  Hugo  built 
such    high  hopes.     That  first   performance  marks  the 
great  epoch  of  Gautier's  life.      It  made  upon  him  an 
ineffaceable   impression ;  and  although  he   broke  away 
from  the  trammels  of  the  school  and  asserted  his  own 
individuality,    "  Hernani "    remained    for  him  what  it 
was  to  the  youth  of  1830,  the  most  splendid  creation 
of  the  French  stage.     When  the  play  was  revived  in 
1867,  under  the  Second  Empire —  Hugo  being  then  in 
exile  and  a  bitter  opponent  of  Napoleon  III  —  Gautier 
wrote    for    the    official    Monlteur    an   enthusiastic    and 
laudatory  notice  of  the  play,  and  put  it,  together  with 
his  resignation   of  the  office  of  dramatic  critic,  beion^y 
the  Minister  of  the  Interior.     The  article  was  accepted, 
and  published,  and   the  resignation   refused.      The  last 
work  he  was  engaged  upon  was  that  "  History  of  Ro- 
manticism "    which    has    remained   unfinished,   and  in 
which   he  describes,    with    a    fire   of   enthusiasm  that 


! 


sbdfc  ^  &  i:  4: &  4: 4: 4:  iridbtfctktirsfctt:*  A4?  A  :&  A 

THE    MAN    AND    HIS    WORK 

neither  age  nor  suffering  could  extinguish,  the  story  of 
that  memorable  first  night,  on  which,  wearing  his  rose- 
colored  doublet  and  his  lion  mane  of  hair,  he  was  the 
most  conspicuous  figure  in  the  tumultuous  scene.  The 
last  lines  he  penned  were  an  article  on  u  Hernani." 

From  this  time  his  career  was  practically  settled,  and 
literature  claimed  him  as  her  own  with  the  publication 
of  his  first  "Poems/'  on  the  28th  of  July,  1830.  An 
unfortunate  date,  for  it  was  the  first  of  those  "glori- 
ous days  of  July  "  which  overthrew  the  reactionary 
Charles  X.  and  inaugurated  the  reign  of  Louis-Philippe, 
the  bourgeois  king. 

Gautier  had  the  ill-luck,  or  rather  the  lack  of  fore- 
sight, which  marked  also  his  admirers,  the  Goncourt 
brothers.  Devoted  to  art  like  them  and  despising  the 
bourgeois^ — under  which  term,  broadened  for  his  own 
use,  he  classed  all  whosoever  did  not  make  of  art  an 
exclusive  cult, —  he  was  blind,  or  at  least  wholly  indif- 
ferent to  the  signs  of  the  times,  and  always  failed  to 
perceive  coming  revolutions  until  they  had  become 
accomplished  facts.  To  this  was  due  the  failure  of 
his  first  poetic  effort  to  attract  any  attention  whatever. 
Even  worse  than  this  —  for  Gautier  was  in  no  wise  dis- 
couraged by  this  check  —  his  father,  an  ardent  believer 

7 


•§»  «JU  *i»  »!,»  •*»  »4»  «4«  *lr»  *§•  ^^^^^4U^«i»  •!*•!*  *"••§••!•  •!••«• 

v»\#   *m«    «fW    **w     «<BV»     «w     era     «ff«     «(*#     wr*     *y»     e*\»   v»*»    ey*»   v*e   *.^r#    *«*   a/c*   «¥•   *»<*   «*•    «VW    W»*  WW* 

T.HEOPHILE      GAUTIER 

in  the  monarchy,  as  has  already  been  said,  speculated  j 
on  a  rise  in  the  funds  and  naturally  lost  his  all;  and 
thus  began  for  the  son  that  life-long  struggle  with  ill- 
fortune  which  recalls  that  still  more  pathetic,  still  more 
trying  one  in  which  Balzac  is  the  central  figure.  The 
revolution  of  1848,  which  dethroned  Louis-Philippe  in 
his  turn,  found  Gautier  in  fairly  comfortable  circum- 
stances ;  it  left  him  again  a  ruined  man.  He  managed 
to  pull  up  once  more,  and  at  the  end  of  eighteen  years 
was  justified  in  believing  that  he  would  be  appointed 
to  the  Imperial  Senate,  —  a  comfortable  sinecure,  —  that 
the  doors  of  the  Academy  would  at  last  open  to  admit 
him,  and  that  he  might  end  his  life  in  the  fulfilment  of 
a  long  caressed  project,  the  founding  of  a  school  for 
the  training  of  literary  artists,  —  when  the  crash  came 
at  Sedan  and  the  Empire  fell. 

But  in  1830  he  was  young,  full  of  energy  and  high 
hopes,  and  determined  to  cut  his  way  to  the  front. 
His  first  long  poem,  "  Albertus,"  appeared  in  1832  and 
won  him  fame.  It  was  of  the  Romantic  order  and 
stamped  its  author  as  one  of  the  brilliant  minds  of  that 
ever-increasing  company  of  devotees  to  art  in  all  its 
forms  whose  cardinal  principle  was  the  lauding  of  each 
other's  works  and  the  faithful  imitation  of  the  manner- 


J/» #&•  *!•  ri/«  «JU  •*»  «1*  #1^  »*•  •*»  •*■»  •*»•*»  •*•  «£•  •*•  **»  •*»  •*•  #£•  •*»  e&*  »*o  #*• 

*•  •**•    «vv    vt*    «*•    •!»•    m    *r»    vf*    •*<•    •*•    •*•  «T»  •*»  •»*•  •""•  •*•  •»•  *c»  *»*  •*•    •*"•   ***  •"*• 

fHE    MAN    AND    HIS    WORK 


sms  of   Victor  Hugo,  then  the  recognised    standard- 
earer  of  the   school. 

Gautier,  however,  like  Musset,  had  a  strongly  marked 

ndividuality  and  a  keen  sense  of  the   humorous.      He 

erceived  readily  the   ridiculous   side  of  Romanticism  ; 

he   more  so  that   he  himself  had  gone  to  the  fullest 

xtremes   in  the  extravagance  and  nonsense  that  then 

)assed  as  a  mark  of  genius,  or  of  great  talent  at  least. 

fust  as  Musset,  in  his  audacious  "  Ballad  to  the  Moon," 

An     his     "  Mardoche,"     and     in     many    parts    of    his 

V  Namouna,"  had  satirised  the  excesses  of  the  school, 

so   Gautier    relieved    himself   by  the  composition   and 

I  )ublication  of  the  tales  which  bear  the  collective  name 

)f  "  les  Jeune-France."     The  work  was  a  great  suc- 

ess,  acclaimed  on  the  one  hand  by  the  Romanticists, 

ost  of  whom  were  not  quick-witted  enough  to  per- 

jleive  the  sarcasm  dealt  out  to  them,  and  most  heartily 

jlamned,  on  the  other,  by  the  pale-faced  bourgeois^  who 

jere  treated   in   it   with   that  total  disrespect  and  that 

'^asperating  contempt  which  the  adherents  of  Hugo 

penly  and  loudly   professed  for  them. 

I  Youth  loves  to  make  a  sensation.      Gautier  enjoyed 

le  noisy  reputation  he  had  so  easily  gained,  as  did  also 

v  (gene   Renduel,  the   publisher  of   the    Romanticists, 


u 


, 


•I*  •!•  •!•  «4«  •!•  *4*  *i*4r«  *&*  ♦!»  <4»  »!»«4»  *4**&>  <4**l*«&**k<4*  #4»  •!••£•  «l^ 

•«**  *»w  •»»  •-*•  «?•   w  «5»    «**    «§U   *S*   «i«  w»  rr*  •*•  •*•  •*•  •""•  •"»  «*»  •*"•  *"■  •*•  •*•  *•" 

THEOPHILE       GAUTIE 


who  begged  him  for  another  work,  a  sensational  novel} 
He  got  it,  though  it  took  three  years  to  write.      It  waif 
"  Mademoiselle  de   Maupin,"  which  called  out,  on   it. 
appearance^a  storm  of  mingled  reprobation  and  admira-)ifi 
tion,  provoked  then  mainly  by  the  Preface,  later  by  the 
story  itself,  and  the  echoes  of  which  have  not  altogethei 
died  out  in  our  day.      In  those  debonair  times,  whei 
Realists  and  Naturalists  had  not  yet  appeared  upon  the 
scene  and  served  up  "slices  of  life  "  to  a  public  whos 
vitiated  taste  refuses  all  but  the  gamiest  and  most  highly] 
seasoned  works  of  an  epoch  of  decadence,  the  book  wa< 
looked  upon  as  a  shameless  exposition  of  sensuality  byl 
some,  as  a  masterpiece  of  art  and  audacity  by  others 
The  brilliant  "  Preface,"    with   its  virulently   sarcastic] 
attacks  upon  critics  and  the  old-maidish  prudery  of  the 
bourgeois,  was,  however,  the  chief  offence,  the  story  itselfr- 
attracting  little  attention  outside  the  sacred  circle. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  became  connected  witlj] 
the    Chronique  de   Paris,   founded    by    Balzac,    and    iVi 
which  he  published  several  tales,   "  Death  in   Love  ■ 
and  "  The  Golden  Chain  "  being  the  most  noteworth 
The  tale  which    now  bears   the  title   of  "  Fortunio, 
and  which   is  one  of  his  best-known  works,  belongf 
also  to    this    period.      It    appeared    in    book    form-*  f 


y 

Ml 


10 


kd&&&&&&&&&&&&dh&dk££&tk&4:ikjk 


MADEMOISELLE 

IDE    MAUPIN 


I*  Ac  A*  Ac  •*•  Ac  Ac  Ac  Ac  *4*  Ac  Ac  Ac  Ac  Ac  Ac  Ac  Ac  A%  Ac  Ac  Ac  Ac  Ac 

as  V»\»    «w    «rra     mrm»     wm     »w     *r»     «rrv»     ir»     wr»     **•   •»»•    •«•    •fia   am*    •■»>•    »v«    tin    •>¥»•   «T»    •*»•    •*•  «n» 


Introduction 


NrOT  milk  for  babes  nor  a  book  for  young 
men  or  maidens,  undoubtedly ;  composed 
by  a  youth  who  forgot  or  contemned  the 
"maxima   reverentia ; ,:    a  work  of  art, 
hymn  to  plastic  beauty,  an  outburst  of  Romanticism, 
literary  escapade  comparable  in  some  respects  to  por- 
ions  of  Byron's  work,  recalling  passages  of  Shelley, 
ines  of  Keats,  and,  still  more,  the  daring  stanzas   of 
Ufred  de  Musset  in  "  Mardoche  "  and  "  Namouna," 
nd  some  of  the  exquisite  strains  of  u  Rollo  "  and  the 
Nuits." 

Written  to  the  order  of  Renduel,  who  desired  a  sen- 
Jtional  novel,  the  book  failed,  save  for  its  audaciously 
ipertinent  Preface,  to  fulfil  the  publisher's  expecta- 
)ns,  and  it  did  not  create  as  much  of  a  stir  as  the 
loulish  "  Han  d'Islande,"  the  absurd  novels  of 
etrus    Borel,    or  the   brilliant    stories    of    Dumas    the 


)L. 


33 


WVv  «*v»   «vw  v*»    •*<*    «n   «^»    «5*    viU    ^U   •*»   •»•  w«w  •**  «*•  •»»  «**  *»»  «r*  w  **»   *»*  «*v    * 


«W»  »«\#   «yw   v*» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPI 


elder.  It  was  too  poetical  for  the  average  reader  i\\ 
that  day,  and  the  sensuality  which  marks  it  was  n 
gross  enough  for  that  class  of  prurient  persons  wli 
seek  and  invariably  find  nastiness  where  others  fail  ; 
discover  it.  Yet  the  novel  exemplifies  in  a  strikir 
manner  several  of  the  important  traits  of  Romanticis 
in  France,  and  indicates  the  tendencies  of  a  movemei 
the  full  consequences  of  which  have  been  clearly  pe 
ceived  in  our  day  only. 

Though  partly  based  upon  fact,  "  Mademoiselle  c 
Maupin  "  is  largely  a  work  of  pure  imagination  ar. 
fancy.  It  is  a  day-dream,  related  in  wondrous  lai 
guage,  depicted  in  occasional  tableaux,  made  tangib 
and  almost  real  by  the  great  skill  of  the  writer.  It 
partly,  also,  a  mental  autobiography,  for  many  of  tr 
sentiments  attributed  to  d'Albert  are  unquestionabl 
the  sentiments  of  Gautier  himself.  The  yearning  for 
full  realisation  of  beauty,  the  distaste  for  the  commor 
place,  the  longing  for  the  unattainable,  the  feelinl 
of  disappointment,  the  disgust  of  satiety  experieno, 
with  the  first  taste  of  pleasure,  these  are  all  found  f 
the  author  himself,  and  so  far  d'Albert  is  to  GautiS 
what  Rene  is  to  Chateaubriand  — but  so  far  only.  Acjjj 
to  this   sentimental    need  of  putting  himself  into  t 

34 


it  /« «A*  #si»  «\l/«  «X*  *4»  •i."*  «4f  »4»  *Ir»  •*•»  •£•«!<•  *A#  •*»  #1*  «JU  **•  *jU  •*•  •§•  •*•  «A»  »-S» 

•»v\»    «lm»    n»    hv     *»»    »*-»     »t»     •rw    »»•    »t*    **•  *tk>   •■»■•   «▼>•   "*    *T»   *.'T\»   Wt>»   w«v   wv>*    vr«    vr*  tmi 

INTROD  UCTI  ON 


o:in  of  his  male  personage  the  devouring  desire  to  ex- 

Ibrience  what  women   feel,  what  different  beings  feel, 

bt    nowadays    only,  but  also   in   other   days,    a    desire 

thich  was  ever  present  in  Gautier,  and  the  choice  of 

e  subject  becomes   more  intelligible.      Gautier  would 

sifive   delighted    in    leading    many   lives,   not   in    fancy 

|  erely,  but  actually.      Could   he  have  gone  beyond  the 

eDunds  of  metempsychosis  and  become  a  passionate,  an 

norous,  a  voluptuous  woman,  such  as  the  one  he  de- 

dcts  in  his  heroine,  his  soul  would  have  been  satisfied. 

ould  he  have  lived  the  real  life  of  an  Eastern  poten- 

te,  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice,  steeped   in  all 

ie  pleasure  of  the   Orient,  he  would   have  breathed  a 

y\\  of  contentment.      Could  he  have  become  a   god 

id    known   the  fulness  of   beauty   and    expressed    it, 

ade  it  tangible,  he  would  have   felt  that  life  was  well 

/ed  and  annihilation  cheap  at  the  price.     But  none  of 

ese  things  could  he  do,  though  he  remained  a  prey  to 

re  burning  desire,  and  therefore  in  the  composition  of 

Mademoiselle  de  Maupin  "  he  strove  to  realise  some- 

jing  of  the  avatar  he  dreamed  of. 

The  book  is  not  a  product  of  Christian  art,  in  the 

Minary  sense  of  the  word,  and  Chateaubriand  himself 

uld  have  been  puzzled  —  had   it  been  written  in  his 


35 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPI 

day  —  to  relate  it  to   Christian   inspiration,  yet  the 
fluence  of  that  art   is   not  wholly   absent   from   it  \ 
paganism,  in   which    the    Greek  love   of   beauty,  tl 
refreshed  and    revived    art  in   France  at  the  time 
the  Renaissance,  is  felt,  drew  to  itself  some  part  of  t 
spiritual   beauty   which   Christianity   called   out    in   t 
religious   paintings  of  the  great   masters  of  Italy   a 
Spain.       But    Gautier    is,    nevertheless,    essentially 
pagan,  to  whom  the  art  of  the  Middle  Ages  appeals  1 
imperfectly,  his  own  nature  not  being   spiritual.      T 
times,  the  circumstances  in  which   he  lived  and  wh 
affected   the   earlier   development   of   his  talent,   m; 
some  mark  upon  his  work  ;  the  real  influence  to  wh 
he  sympathetically  responded  was  that  which   inspi 
the  Greek  of  old  and  the  artist  of  the  Renaissance, 
the  love  of  external  beauty,  the  sensuous  delight  in 
perfection  of  form  and  the  glory  of  colour,  the  splend 
of  rich  stuffs,  and  the  gleam  of  jewels. 

Romanticism  laid  much  stress  on  externals,  and 
so  far  Gautier  was  in  touch  with  it,  as  the  perusal 
the  novel   readily   shows.      It   acted   on   him,  howe;[ 
and   on    his    work   in  another  way,   producing  resj^ 
more  markedly  distinctive.     He  has  no  thought  of  or 
for  analysis  of  character.     There  is  not  a  single  str 


) 


«JU  *i„  rl*  JU  cJU  JU  #i«  #1*  •!•  •^•|»#|«ri*  JUr.U»>l»  «!••!»  #|«#i»  •!*  JU#i* 

•w»    «**    •»*•    *im     «tw    •*»     or*     «f«    •*••    it*    •*»  •"*•  *r»  «»r»  vr»   «w»  vr#  •*<•  •*<•  **•    •«"•   w»  ***>• 

I  NTRO  D  UCTI  ON 


iracter  in  the  book,  no  living  creation,  no  type  that 

';  passed  into  the  domain  of  literature.      D'Albert  is 

^ak,  and   to  a   large   extent   unattractive.      His  con- 

(nt  self-torture  is  apt  to  weary,  as  does  that  of  the 

mantic  hero.      He  has  no  will  of  his  own,  no  manly 

our.     The  heroine,  for  all  her  strangeness,  her  bold- 

||S,  and  her  assumption  of  masculine  dress,  is  simply 

haracterless  creature.      Now  this  is  the  badge  of  the 

ole  tribe  of  Romantic   heroes  and  heroines.      They 

not  living  human  beings  ;  they  are  merely  creations 

the  fancy,  and   mouthpieces  of  the  author.     They 

figures   dressed  in   rich  or  picturesque    costumes  ; 

Y  strike  attitudes,  they  pose,  they  affect  certain  ex- 

ssions,  they  knit  their  brows  and  frown,  they  scowl, 

j  turn  their  eyes  to  heaven,  they  swoon,  they  rage, 

they  are  not  real ;  they  do  not  convey  the    idea  of 

lality.      And    this    is    emphatically    the    case   with 

lbert  and  Theodore.       They    are  shadows  evoked 

Sautier,  —  brilliant,  striking,  fair  to  look  upon,  but 

lows  that  melt  into  thin  air,  substanceless,  unreal. 

rcjigain,  Romantic  writers,  for  all   their  fine   phrases 

ffljt  woman,  for  all  the  adornments  which  they  be- 

Wred  upon  her  and  the  languorous  and  amorous  verse 

spouted  about  her,  had  but  a  low  opinion  of  the  sex, 

37 


«&*  *A%  *&*  *!/•  el/»  »|*  JU «!/» «4*  *A»  #4»  #A»JU  #** •£•  #4*  *®»  «4»  *iU «x»«x»  «Jt»  «*•«!'• 

«"\#  *™\»    Wt*    **a    •>*•     «n    •»«•     aw     *t*    •*•    ***    ***  «"»  w«  •*<•  •*»   w«  »ro  v»»  •*«•  »r»    «vw  vjn«  •»  • 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

and  considered  her,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  as  merel1  yl 
a  charming  ornament,  a  pretty  plaything  intended  tno 
satisfy  man's  sensual  desires.  In  all  Victor  Hugops 
dramas  there  is  not  one  woman  who  commands  adminPi- 
tion  and  respect,  and  he  is  the  chief  and  leader  of  thl  '  e 
school.  As  is  the  master,  so  are  the  disciples.  I(  *r 
"  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin  "  Gautier  takes  no  pains  tj  d 
conceal  his  low  view  of  woman  ;  not  that  he  thinks  .1 
low;  he  merely  expresses  what  he,  in  common  witY  h 
the  other  Romanticists  of  the  day,  felt  and  believet  ^  d 
Vigny,  at  least,  honours  woman  more  by  presenting  hwj  ji 
to  us  as  an  active  principle  of  evil  which  man  has  inh 
combat.  She  is  not  a  nonentity;  she  is  impure,  it  c$  i 
true,  in  body  and  soul,  but  she  is  a  power.  Lamar  c,i 
tine  has  idealised  her,  etherealised  her  to  the  extent  <fffco 
making  her  a  phantom  of  delight,  but  not  "  a  perfect  j 
woman,  nobly  planned,  to  warm,  to  comfort,  and  con> 
mand."  Hogg's  Kilmeny  that  "  gaed  up  the  glen  "  Li 
superior  as  a  spiritual,  yet  human,  creation  to  a  ,  \ 
French  heroine  of  the  Romantic  period. 

The  curious  obliquity  which  made  the  courtesan,  tv  y|Ji 
Messalina,  a  favourite  with  the  French  Romanticists  b1-  , 
given  us  Hugo's  Marion  Delorme,  Lucrezia  Borgia,  ac 
Tisbe,  Dumas's  Adele  d'Hervey,  and  Gautier's  Rose"o 


«A*  *U  -i,  Ju  J*  ,1*  J*  .1,  «i*«JU4««l*#i*#|««|«*i««|**|*«l*«|««l*«l*«l*«i» 

4*r#  •<■*#    •?*    «m    crM     mi    am*    *<n.     m\>    «.»    ««w    «,<•  otw  *i»  *r»  •*»   »w  «ft#  «5W  «JT»  »t»    «**•   m  *?<• 

I  NTRODUCTION 

and  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin.  The  rehabilitation  of 
virtue  by  the  journalists  of  his  day,  against  which  the 
latter  declaims  in  his  Preface,  was  the  counterpart  of 
the  rehabilitation  of  immorality  in  woman,  in  which  the 
Romanticists  especially  delighted.  Gautier  asks  noth- 
ing of  woman  but  beauty,  perfect  beauty.  As  to  the 
moral  side  of  her  nature,  he  cares  not  a  jot  for  it,  and  it 
is,  consequently,  wholly  absent  from  this  novel. 

Another  trait,  the  disdain  of  the  vulgar,  the  contempt 
for  the  public,  while  not  confined  to  the  members  of 
the  Romantic  school,  is  nevertheless  characteristic  of  it 
and  crops  up  constantly  in  "  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin." 
Gautier  abhors  the  bourgeois  and  cannot  chafF,  cannot 
abuse  him  too  much.  He  takes  pleasure  in  scandalis- 
ing him,  in  horrifying  him,  in  making  him  shudder,  in 
shocking  him.  Hence  many  of  the  more  risky  situa- 
tions, many  of  the  more  lascivious  passages  of  the  novel. 
He  enjoyed  writing  them,  because  the  young  animal 
in  him  was  hot-blooded  and  its  passions  highly  ex- 
cited, but  very  largely,  too,  because  primness,  prudery, 
conventional  morality  would  be  stirred  up  to  impotent 
protestation.  Much  of  the  same  sort  of  thing  is  to 
tyj  met  with  in  Musset,  the  most  adorably  impertinent 
contemner  of  the  profanum  vulgus.     In  this  there  was, 

39 


•i*«j*  *i*  riy«  *(U  *i»  •!/•  *i»  «£•  «A»  «l»4§»«t»«i*«i*  •!••!•  •!••!•  »!*«4?  •!•  •4»*J,,«« 

«n*  **•    ««•    «w    **.     •<*•    m    *r»     «iS-    *w    «5»    «*  •*•  ve«  •#•  •»»  •**  <v*#  vcw  w  «fiw    mm  •*<•  vr  •« 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPINJ 

further,  the  element   of  the   disdain  of  youth   for  age  y, 
so  very  marked   in  all   the   Romanticist  writers  of  th?k* 
flamboyant  group,  —  a  disdain  which  went,  in  Gautit^ 
and  at  that  time,  to  the  length  of  abhorrence.      Old  agPi 
was  repulsive   to  him,  and  he  joyed   in  the  confoundl'i 
ing  of  it  by  youth,  as  did   the  valets   of  Moliere  whl1 
befooled   and  beat  the    Gerontes,  or  the   Crispins    ol^  ( 
Regnard   who  personated   in  order  to  rob  them.         IT. 
But  after  all,  the  main  inspiration  of  "  Mademoiselle  1 
de  Maupin  "  is  the  love  of  beauty,  the  passionate  desiuj  r 
for   the   perfection  of  loveliness.      Gautier   dwells   off; 
this  aspect  of  his  subject ;   Rosette  and  Theodore  aif-f: 
but  pretexts  for  lyrical  strains  in  praise  of  his  idol,  bi  I 
pegs  on  which  to  hang  votive  offerings  of  garlands  oft1 
Poesy  to  it.      Hence  the  transformation  of  the  origin; | 
subject-matter,  which  he  found  in  the  life  of  t'he  advert 
turess  and  Opera  singer  whose  name  he  has  given  to  hip 
heroine,  and  whose  adventures  and  temperament  he  he   | 
borne  in  mind  while  tracing  the  portrait  ot  Theodor 
This   woman   was   a   Mademoiselle  d'Aubigny,  whos   y. 
father  was  secretary  to  the  Count  d'Armagnac,  and  wfiVM: 
born  in  1673.      When  quite  young  she  was  married  mdk: 
an   insignificant   fellow  of  the   name  of  Maupin,  whcY 
soon  dropped  out  of  her  life  to  reappear  only  towarcfoj 


40 


£%  #4*  *!"  *!*  *A»  *A»  •!*  *i»  «^«  ^1^  •JL»#A»#X»#J»  •X»JU»J^rl'»«4»  #»••*•  •§••§•  •!• 

Ml*  »">»    **•    •*»    •¥•     •>*•    *»»•     *r»     •*•    **•    *t*    •*•  •*•  w»  •"'•  •"•   w*«  m»  am*  •*•  «n»    m»    •*»•  *■»* 

INTRODUCTION 


ts  close.  He  spent  his  days  in  the  provinces,  as  a 
:lerk  or  subordinate  official  in  the  Treasury  Department. 
The  girl  herself  early  left  him  to  seek  adventures  in 
he  gay  world  of  Paris,  where  she  became  the  mistress 
if  a  fencing-master,  Seranne,  under  whom  she  acquired 
emarkable  skill  in  the  use  of  the  small  sword.  The 
»air  went  to  the  South  of  France,  and  finding  them- 
elves  impecunious,  turned  to  account  their  natural  gift 
n  fine  voice,  Maupin  possessing  a  splendid  contralto. 
Ae  made  her  debut  as  a  singer  on  the  Marseilles  stage, 
tr  at  once  scored  a  success.  A  discreditable  adven- 
p  with  a  young  girl  of  that  city,  involving  the  digging- 
of  the  body  of  a  dead  nun  and  the  setting  fire  to  the 
went  in  which  Maupin  was  masquerading  as  a  novice, 
/ought  down  upon  her  the  arm  of  the  law,  but  no  par- 
icular  effort  appears  to  have  been  made  to  carry  out  the 
*ntence  passed  upon  her.  She  adopted  thereafter  the 
,<-*ctice  of  dressing  in  men's  clothes,  and  in  her  assumed 
leracter  fought  many  a  duel,  out  of  which  she  invari- 
ci   came  victorious. 

cUeturning  to  Paris  she  was  presented  by  the  com- 
prr  Bouvard  to  Francine,  Lulli's  successor  in  the 
K  tgement  of  the  Opera,  and  under  his  auspices  she 
ccje  her  first  appearance  on  the  Paris  stage  in  the  part 

4i 


•*•*!»  •*•  *4«  •£•  »4t  «!r»  •A*  *4*  •!•  »lr»  *!»«*•  #!«•*♦  »l«»iUeiu#A»*t»  «X»  »i»  «&»» 

owe    v»\#    «to    *»«•    wlit     vr*     »<»     «««     *«•*     «Va     «i«     <fr«   Wr*   *T»   am*  an*    v»\»    «/*0    vr«   «V*   »r»    *T*    »»* 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPI^ 

of  Pallas  in  the  opera  of  u  Cadmus."  Here  again  $j 
won  success  and  speedily  became  a  prima  donna.  Se 
is  described  by  a  contemporary  as  being  at  this  tim'^ 
most  beautiful  woman,  of  medium  stature,  with  a  v'*e 
fine  figure,  brown  hair,  great  blue  eyes,  an  aquiline  nc*t- 
a  well  shaped  mouth,  remarkably  fine  teeth,  and  p?t- 
feet  neck  and  shoulders.  From  Paris,  where  heradve  ^ 
tures  were  numerous  and  noisy,  she  went  to  Bruss^ 
and  became  the  mistress  of  the  Elector  of  Bavaj  h 
When  he  cast  her  off  she  again  returned  to  the  car  A 
and  resumed  her  relations  with  Count  d'Albert, 
officer  of  the  King's  household,  who  had  been 
became  again  her  preferred  lover.  Not  long  af 
wards  she  withdrew  from  the  stage,  was  reconcile 
her  husband,  and  lived  with  him  until  her  death,  sloi 
say,  —  until  she  entered  a  convent,  according  to  othe]  : 

Gautier  has  retained  the  name  of  d'Albert  as  wel,!1'1 
that  of  Maupin,  but  in  other  respects  has  allowed  KrU 
self  the  greatest  latitude  in  dealing  with  the  materi|tr) 
his   command. 

The  book,  when  first  published,  had  for  sub-title  jj'l 
Double  Love,"  which,  however,  appears  only   inH 
original  edition  and  in   the  reprint,  published  by  Oft  i 
pentier-Conquest   in    1887.      The   original  "  Pref; 

42 


I*  #i*  JL*  +1+  #A»  •!*  rli,  #f*  JU  •!*  «J*«A»«>U#J«t!^«l*»i*^««J«*i»«i/»  *£**!•  JU 

»v   »<w#    «ww    vrw    «vw     •-»•    m     «r»     •*•    «r«    •*•    ««•  •"*•  •»»•  •-»<•  •*•  *5W  vm#   •*»  •*?•  vr*    «r#   vr*  v»W 

I NTRO  D  UCTIO  N 

Fers  in  some  slight  respects  from  the  text  now  pub- 
hed.  These  changes  were  made  in  1845  f°r  tne 
tst  edition  issued  by  Charpentier,  and  are  of  little 
iportance,  being  mostly  concessions  to  taste.  The 
I  ginal  edition,  which  appeared  at  the  close  of  the  year 
'135,  did  not  sell  well,  and  Renduel,  the  publisher, 
aiused  to  take  any  other  work  from  Gautier.  But 
fcm  1845,  when  Charpentier  acquired  the  copyright, 
^Gautier  was  paid  1500  francs  for  the  work,  —  it  has 
>bi  at  an  average  number  of  several  thousand  copies  a 
pr,  and  its  popularity  has  never  waned. 

I 


cr 
c^ 

pr 

I 

cc 

I 


43 


n»    «*•    •»■»#    «n»*     •<*#    wr»     •»»     wvv*     vr*     *♦»    •*«  wv»   »T>»  «/*»  *»v(    «*f>»   cam   <y»\»    **v»   »ttv    *w    ww*  «>u» 

tademoiselle  de  Maupin 

fU  aj/t  #»*/»  •£»  el*  •&»  «JL*  #JU  aJt*  *^«4U«^#l««*»^l»«>sUet«  »*%•&••*•  *£«  *?-»*!» 

*•    •«•    %-r»    vr*     vm    mo     «v»     «H»    «*i*    «r„v    «wo  aw   vre  «SK»  •*»   •*«•  vfos  vfw  •?•  «/r»    w«<0   vw  vtr» 


Pref 


ace 


3NE  of  the  most  comical  traits  of  the  glori- 
ous epoch  in  which  it  is  our  happy  lot  to 
live  is    unquestionably  the  rehabilitation 
of  virtue  which  all  our  newspapers  —  no 
er  of  what  stripe,  red,  green,  or  tri-colour  —  have 
^rtaken. 

^questionably  virtue  is   a   very  respectable   thing, 

we   have    not   the   least   intention   of  being   rude 

he    good   and  worthy   lady,   Heaven    help    us  !  — 

are  of  opinion  that  her  eyes  beam  quite  brightly 

hgh  through  her  spectacles,  that  her  stockings  have 

vrinkles  to  speak  of,  that  she  takes  her  pinch  of 

7  from  her  gold  box  with  all   possible  grace,  that 

pet  dog  curtsies  like  a  dancing  master.     We  grant 

{'hat.     We  even    grant   that,  taking   her  age   into 

[ant,  she  is  still  comely  enough,  and  that  she  carries 

er  years  undeniably  well.     She  is  a  very  pleasant 


Hmother,  but    a    grandmother.      It    seems    to    me 
ral  to  prefer  to  her,  especially  when  one  is  twenty 


45 


•i*  **»  »JU  *$*  *&+  «JU  •!/•  riU  *!/*  #A»  9&%  JU«A*  «A»  «JU  JU  «■*-»  *JU  #1»  •§•  •*»  •!•  •§ 

v*\«  v«\*    «v*    m/rs    «r«     «m    an«     «*»     *«»    •*»    **•    «*•  «r*  wr*  w*<*  **•   •**•  «r*  vt*  **<•  »!•    *»»   wr 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPI 


h 

k 
on 
re, 
an 


years  old,  some  little  trig  immorality  coquettish   t 
degree,  easy  going,  her  hair  out  of  curl,  her  skirt  sJ 
rather  than  long,  with  an  ankle  and  a  glance  that  d"' 
the  eye,  a  cheek  somewhat  aglow,  a  laugh  on  the 
and  her  heart  on  her  sleeve.     The  most  monstro 
virtuous   journalists    cannot    possibly    hold   a   differ 
opinion,   and,   if   they  assert   the  contrary,   it   is 
likely  they  do  not  think  as  they  speak.      To  think 
way  and   to  write  in  another  happens  every  day,  t 
cially  to  virtuous  people. 

I  remember  the  sarcasms  hurled  before  the  R 
lution  (the  Revolution  of  July,  I  mean)  at  the  u 
tunate  and  maidenlike  Viscount  Sosthenes  d 
Rochefoucauld,  who  lengthened  the  skirts  of  the  b 
dancers  at  the  Opera,  and  with  his  patrician  Vn 
stuck  a  modesty-preserving  plaster  just  below  the 
of  all  statues.  The  Viscount  Sosthenes  de  la  R 
foucauld  has  been  left  far  behind.  Modesty  hasr 
vastly  improved  upon  since  his  day,  and  we  indujp 
refinements  he  would  never  have  thought  of 

For  myself,  as   I  am  not   in    he  habit  of  look; 
certain   parts   of  statues,  I  thought,  as  others  di 
fig-leaf  cut  out  by  the  scissors  of  the  director  o\Hl 
Arts,  the  most  ridiculous  thing  in  the  world.      It  ° 


ID 

pot 

I 


t»  *!*  •*/•  «x»  JU  #JU  •&*  *JU  #Jt»  «jt»»jt»  «!•  JU  «£<•  •£»  JU  #1*  «!*  JU  •*•  •*•  JU 

r*   •*•    *r*»    •»•    •*»    rin    •*•    tRF*    «i»    •••  «r»  "»•  •»»•  •«•  vr»  •*•»  «n»  •*•  «r»   «m  ••<•  **• 


PREFACE 


[  am  wrong  and  that  the  fig-leaf  is  a  most  merito- 

institution. 

ave  been  told  —  though  so  strange  is  the  statement 

refused  to  credit  it  —  that  there  are  people  who 
•thing  in  Michael  Angelo's  fresco  of  the  Last  Judg- 
but  the  group  of  libertine  prelates,  and  who  veil 
:aces  as  they  lament  the  abomination  of  desolation  ! 
ese  people  know  only  the  couplet  of  the  adder  in 
mance  of  Rodriguez.  If  there  be,  in  a  book  or  a 
e,  any  nudity,  they  go  straight  to  it  as  a  pig  to 
md  take  no  account  of  the  blooming  flowers  or 

fair  golden  fruits  which  hang  everywhere. 
Dnfess  that  I  am  not  virtuous  enough  for  that  sort 
ng.      Dorine,  the  bold   soubrette,  may  freely  ex- 
n  my  presence  her  swelling  bosom ;   I  shall  cer- 

not  pull  out  my  handkerchief  to  cover  those 
;  one  ought  not  to  look  at.      I  shall  look  at  her 

as  at  her  face,  and,  if  it  be  white  and  shapely,  I 
ike  to  look  at  it.  But  I  shall  not  feel  Elmira's 
o  see  if  the  stuff  be  soft,  and  I  shall  not  devoutly 
ler  against  the  edge  of  the  table,  as  that  "  poor 

TartufFe  did. 
I:  great   pretence  of  morality  which  reigns   nowa- 

ould  be  very  funny,  were  it  not  very  wearisome. 

47 


«d*  ju  *i»  *t*  «JL  «t»  •!*  «i*  «^  JU  •&••&••!•  •!•«!?•  «<l««l«  •!«•!•  «l**^«  •I-! 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUF 

Every  feuilkton   is   turned    into   a   pulpit,  every   r 
paper  writer  into  a  preacher  \  the  tonsure  and  the  i 
cal  collar  alone  are  wanting.      We  are  having  no 
but  rain  and  homilies,  and  the  one  and  the  others  c; 
avoided   only  by  taking  a  carriage   to  go   out,  an 
reading  Pantagruel  between  the  bottle  and  the  pip< 
Mercy    on    us  !     what    excitement !     what    fre 
What  has  bitten  you  ?   what  has  stung  you  ?   wha 
devil    is  the  matter  with  you  that   you  are  yellii 
loud,  and  what  has  poor  Vice  done  to  you  that  yq 
so  angry  with  it,  —  Vice,  which  is  so  good-natun 
easy  to  get  on  with,  and  which   merely  wants  to 
itself  and   not  to  bore  others,  if  this  be  possible  ? 
to  Vice  as  Serre  did  to  the  constable  :   kiss  and 
done.      Believe    me,    you    will    be    the    better    f 
Good   Heavens  !   what  would  you  do  but  for  Vi 
ye  preachers  ?      You  would  be  reduced  to  pove 
later  than   to-morrow,  if  men   turned  virtuous  t 
The  theatres  would  close  this  very  evening.      \ 
would  you  find  material  for  your  article  ?      No 
Opera  balls  to  fill  your  columns,  —  no  more  noyi 
dissect ;   for  balls,  novels,  and  plays  are  the  very 
of  Satan,  if  our  Holy  Mother  the  Church  is  to  |j.;i 
licved.      The  actress  would  dismiss  the  man  who 


48 


•JL%  *M/%  *JU  #A*  rJ/»  #J/«  #A»  •A*  #*»  #s«#J*  #Jo  r§*  #>!»  JL»  «£*  #J*  #£*  **•  «£•  •*»  •«• 

^.    »T#    »V*     •-"?•    •«.     *f»     ww*    •*•«*•    m  •*•   •*•  Wf»  •«•   M«  •*•   ««>•   ~r-   •*-    •<*«•    ««w  •«« 

PREFACE 

and  could  no  longer  afford  to  pay   you  for  praising 

Your  papers  would  have  no  subscribers.      People 

ild    read  Saint    Augustine,  go   to   church,  tell   their 

Js.      Very    nice,   no  doubt,  but    you    would   not   be 

gainers.      What  would  you   do  with  your  articles 

:he  immorality  of  the  age,  if  people  were  virtuous  ? 

1  see  that  Vice  is  of  some  use  after  all. 

Jut  it  is  the  fashion  now  to  be  virtuous  and   Chris- 

;    it  is   a  way  we  have.      A  man  affects  to   be  a 

it  Jerome  as   formerly  to  be  a  Don  Juan  ;   he  culti- 

s   pallor  and  emaciation  ;   he  wears  his  hair  of  an 

;tolic    length  ;    he   walks    with    clasped   hands   and 

bent  on  the  ground.  He  tries  to  look  as  if  butter 
Id  not  melt  in  his  mouth  ;  he  keeps  a  Bible  open 
lis  mantelpiece  and  hangs  a  crucifix  and  a  sprig  of 
,  blessed  by  the  priest,  above  his  bedstead ;  he 
lews   swearing  ;   he  smokes  but   little ;   he  scarcely 

chews.  Then  he  is  a  Christian ;  talks  of  the 
edness  of  art,  of  the  artist's  high  mission,  of  the 
ry  of  Catholicism,  of  de  Lamennais,  of  the  painters 
le  Angelic  School,  of  the  Council  of  Trent,  of  pro- 
\ive  humanity,  and  a  thousand  other  fine  things. 
fc  mingle  a  small  dose  of  republicanism  with  their 
%n  ;  they  are  not  the  least  peculiar.     They  couple 


R 


49 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUP 

Robespierre  and  Jesus-Christ  in  the  jolliest  way, 
mix,  with  a  seriousness  worthy  of  all  praise,  the  1 
of  the  Apostles  and  the  decrees  of  the  sainted  Com 
tion, — that  is  the  regulation  epithet.  Others  add 
way  of  final  ingredient,  a  few  of  Saint-Simon's  id 
These  are  the  finished  variety ;  after  them  there  is 
more  to  be  said.  It  is  not  possible  for  man  to  e 
absurdity  to  greater  lengths —  has  ultra  metas,  etc.  7 
are  the  Pillars  of  Hercules  of  the  burlesque. 

Thanks  to  the  prevailing  hypocrisy,  Christianity  i 
much  in  vogue  that  neo-Christianity  itself  enjoys  a 
tain  amount  of  favour.     It  is  said  to  reckon  as  mar 
one  follower,  including  Mr.  Drouineau. 

An  exceedingly  curious  variety  of  the  jourr 
properly  called  moral  is  the  journalist  with  a  fami 
women. 

This  variety  carries  the  susceptibility  of  moc 
almost  to  the  point  of  cannibalism. 

Its  method  of  working,  simple  and  easy  at 
glance,  is  none  the  less  most  comical  and  highly  dif 
ing,  and  I  think  it  worthy  of  being  preserved  foi 
benefit  of  posterity,  —  for  our  ultimate  descend 
as  the  asses  of  our  so-called  Golden  Age  use 
say. 

5° 


*t»  *Jv*  #JL  *&*  •!*  #Ji  JU  •J*«t*«^«>|«rlU«4**^«4*«i**4*«i**§*  •*••!•  •!• 

•m    wiw    «^»     Mia    «SU    »r»     ««•    ««•    •*<•    «t*  »*<•  •*•  •"•  •«•   «•«  «*w  «r*  ~r»  •»*»    •»<•   «ww  »r» 

PREFACE 

0  begin  with,  in  order  to  start  as  a  journalist  of 
sort,  a  few  trifling  properties  are  needed  as  a  pre- 
ary,  — two  or  three  legitimate  wives,  a  few  moth- 
is  many  sisters  as  possible,  a  complete  assortment 
aughters,  and  innumerable  cousins.  Next,  any 
or  novel,  pen,  ink,  paper,  and  a  printer.  An  idea 
'o  and  a  few  subscribers  might  come  in  usefully, 
vith  plenty  of  philosophy  and  the  money  of  the 
holders  these  may  be  dispensed  with. 

hen  you  have  these  things/you  can  start  out  as  a 

1  journalist.     The  two  following  recipes,  suitably 
id,  suffice  for  the  editorial  work  :  — 

f ode  Is  of  Virtuous  Articles  on  a  First  Performance, 

\fter  sanguinary  literature,  filthy  literature ;  after 
lorgue  and  the  penitentiary,  the  bedroom  and  the 
:  of  ill-fame  ;  after  the  rags  stained  by  murder, 
igs  soiled  by  debauch  ;  after  .  .  .  etc.  (according 
ed  and  space  one   may  go  on   in   this   fashion   for 

six  to  fifty  lines  and  more),  — that  is  to  be  ex- 
i.  This  is  the  result  of  romantic  excess  and  the 
tfulness   of  healthy  doctrine ;    the   stage  has   be- 

a  school  of  prostitution,  into  which  one  ventures 
ter  but  hesitatingly  with  a  respectable  woman, 
go  to  the  theatre  on  the  strength  of  an  illustrious 
,  and  you  are  compelled  to  withdraw  at  the  third 

5i 


•jL *!*  sA*  *!/»  «J*  el*  •!/«  «Jt»  #1*  »!«#£*  #£»#!*  •!•«&»  JL«i*JLcl*«£*«4»  •!*«  ;|*W 

«m»  v*\#    vr*    wra    *ss»     «m    «««    «*v     ««    vr*    c/«*    •*<•  «!*•  «f*  «•<•  *w*   «r*w  vr#  •*>•  •«?<•  »i»    «^»    »    »»*>  «> 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPp 

act  with  your  daughter  all  upset  and  not  knowing  w  hicl 
way  to  look.  Your  wife  conceals  her  blushes  bebinc 
her  fan  ;  your  sister,  your  cousin,  etc."  (The  n?rme< 
of  relatives  may  be  diversified  at  will ;  it  is  sufficient 
that  they  should  be   feminine.) 

Note  —  One  of  these  journalists  has  carried  morality 
to  the  point  of  declaring,  "  I  shall  not  go  to  see  that 
drama  with  my  mistress."  I  admire  that  man  ;  I  love 
him  ;  I  bear  him  in  my  heart  as  Louis  XVIII.  bore  all 
France  in  his  ;  for  he  has  had  the  most  triumphant,  the 
most  pyramidal,  the  most  startling,  the  most  gigantic 
idea  which  has  penetrated  the  brain  of  man  in,  this 
blessed  nineteenth  century,  in  which  so  many  and  sq 
funny  ideas  have  come  into  men's  heads. 

The  mode  of  reviewing  a  book  is  very  expeditious 
and  within  reach  of  all  minds  :  — 

"  If  you  intend  to  read  this  book,  lock  yourself  up 
carefully  in  your  own  room ;  do  not  let  it  lie  about  on 
your  table.  If  your  wife  or  your  daughter  happened 
to  open  it  she  would  be  lost.  This  book  is  dangerous; 
it  preaches  vice.  It  might  have  had  much  success, 
perchance,  in  Crebillon's  time,  in  houses  of  ill  fame, 
at  the  select  suppers  of  duchesses ;  but  nowadays,  when 
morals  are  purer,  when  the  hand  of  the  people  has 
thrown  down  the  rotten  edifice  of  aristocracy,  etc.,  etc., 
etc.,  that   .   .   .   that   .   .   .  that   .   .   .  there  must  be  in 

52 


Aj*#Jt*  JL*  *J*  #*»  »A»  •!/»  «J/»  #A»  «JU  »A*#ta#l*«4*«JUe^rl»  •*•<?■*'»  «*•#*-»  «A*cl«  iL 

"frSU   *^»    Jfa    vi*    **#     vfm    «wv»     «r»     WW*     WT»     •»»     «"•  WfW   •*»   *fW   •*•    wra   w*   •*<•   *t*   •»•    •«»»    %»»  »** 

I  PREFACE 

■very  book  an  idea,  an  idea  .  .  .  why,  a  moral,  a  relig- 
ious idea  that  ...  a  lofty,  a  deep  view  which  satisfies 
lie  needs  of  humanity  ;  for  it  is  most  regrettable  that 
loung  writers  should  sacrifice  the  holiest  things  to  sue- 
less,  and  should  devote  their  meritorious  talents  to 
libidinous  descriptions  that  would  bring  a  blush  to  the 
Iheek  of  a  captain  of  dragoons  "  (the  maidenliness  of 
laptains  of  dragoons  is  the  finest  discovery  made  for 
lhany  a  year  since  the  discovery  of  America).  "  The 
tovel  we  criticise  recalls  Theresa  the  Philosopher, 
relicia,   Gaffer    Matthew,  Grecourt's    Tales." 

The  virtuous  journalist  is  deeply  versed  in  filthy 
iovels  ;   I  should  greatly  like  to  know  why. 

It  is  appalling  to  reflect  that  in  the  world  of  news- 
laperdom  there  are  many  worthy  artisans  who  have  no 
jther  means  of  livelihood  for  themselves  and  the 
tumerous  family  they  employ  than  these  two  recipes. 

I  am  apparently  the  most  enormously  immoral  in- 
dividual in  Europe  or  elsewhere,  for  I  see  nothing 
lore  licentious  in  the  novels  and  plays  of  to-day  than 
i  the  novels  and  plays  of  a  former  time,  and  I  can 
~arcely  understand  why  the  morals  of  our  journalists 
ave  suddenly  become  so  jansenistically  prurient. 

I  do  not  believe  that   the  simplest-minded  journalist 
/ill  venture  to  say  that  Pigault-Lebrun,  Crebillon  the 

53 


«s»/»  •&»  *§/»  <r\&*  #sf/»  JLo  Jt«  «J/«  «4t»  «Jt»  #*»  •*»»*©  «*•  •*•  •*•  *JU  »*•  *&»  «A»  «J*  9&t  #3»  9&i 
tfms  «nu    #r>»    vr+    »r*     vr+    t£a     at*     «)*%•    &£"«*    «£5»    tf£»  «w»   «V»  «*»*•  iw»    «n«»  *v#   kw   w«w   •»•    •>»«•    w»  »w 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUP^ 

younger,  Louvet,  Voisenon,  Marmontel,  and  all  othe 
writers  of  novels  and  tales  are  not  more  immoral  — 
since  immorality  is  insisted  upon  —  than  the  most  out 
rageous  and  the  freest  productions  of  Messrs.  So-and-So 
whom  I  do  not  name,  in  order  to  spare  their  blushes. 

A  man  would  have  to  be  perversely  untruthful  no 
to  own  it. 

And  let  it  not  be  objected  that  I  have  cited  name! 
little  known.  If  I  have  not  selected  dazzling  an( 
splendid  names,  it  is  not  because  they  would  fail  t( 
confirm  my  statement  by  their  great  weight. 

Voltaire's  novels  and  tales  are  assuredly  not,  sav< 
so  far  as  difference  in  merit  goes,  fitter  to  be  given  a< 
prizes  to  the  youngsters  in  our  boarding-schools  thar 
are  the  immoral  tales  of  our  friend  the  Lycanthrope  oj 
even  the  moral  tales  of  sugared  Marmontel. 

What  do  you  find  in  the  comedies  of  the  grea 
Moliere  ?  The  holy  institution  of  marriage  (to  speai 
like  catechisms  and  journalists)  derided  and  turned  intc 
ridicule  in  every  scene. 

The  husband  is  old,  ugly,  and  peevish  ;  he  wears  his 
wig  awry  ;  his  coat  is  old-fashioned  ;  he  carries  a  sticl 
with  a  hooked  head  ;  his  nose  is  filthy  with  snuff;  h( 
is    short-legged •>    he    has    a    corporation   as  big  as  th< 

54 


i  •JU»!**4* •!*  •>§•  *i*  •»•  *4» «4« •£•«§*  •§••!• #£••£• •§••!* #JU  #J»  #A«  #1»  ♦!<• •!*#!« 

|        ««<*    W     •*»     wrw     WW     VM    «M     •»»      MM     »ir»     «r*     •»•   «K*    *▼•    •"•   •»»    Wf<*  ««•   «r*   *»••    «*<•     MM    •*•  •*<• 

PREFACE 

,  budget.      He   cannot   speak   distinctly,  and   talks   non- 

.  sense  ;   he  acts  as  foolishly  as  he  talks  ;   he   sees  noth- 

I  ing,  hears  nothing;   you  can  kiss  his  wife  to  his  face; 

I  he  has  no  idea  of  what  that  means,  and   so   it  goes  on 
until  he  is  plainly  and  duly  made  out  a  cuckold,  to  his 

;  own  knowledge  and  that  of  the  very  much  edified 
audience,  which  applauds  loudly. 

It    is    the    most     thorough-paced    husbands    in    the 

I  audience  who  applaud  most  loudly. 

In    Moliere,    marriage   bears   the  name    of   George 
Dandin    or   Sganarelle ;    adultery,   that    of    Damis    or 

[  Clitandre  ;  there  is  no  name  too  sweet  or  charming  for 
it.  The  adulterer  is  always  young,  handsome,  well- 
made,  and  a  marquis  at  the  very  least.  He  comes  in 
from  the  wings  humming  the  latest  cor  ant  o ;  he  steps 
on  to  the  stage  in  the  most  deliberate  and  victorious 
fashion  ;  he  scratches  his  ear  with  the  rosy  nail  of  his 
little  finger,  coquettishly  stuck  out ;  he  combs  out  his 
handsome  blond  wig  with  his  tortoise-shell  comb ;  he 
resettles  his  voluminous  trunk-lace;  his  doublet  and 
trunk  hose  disappear  under  pointlaces  and  favours ; 
his  scarf  is  from  the  right  makers,  his  gloves  are  per- 
fumed with  more  delicate  scent  than  benzoin  and 
civet  ;   his  feathers  have  cost  a  louis  apiece. 

55 


JU  •£•  «J*  ci/»  *i*  e&»  •!/»  sl/»  elU  *sl»«^»A»»i»«4»»|«r|«ri»e4»«|»»|**4»  *i*  «|»<4» 
«W»  «m»   «i»   •«•    •*•    m   iw    •*»    «^ww^«*<»«'i<»«'»,»*'»*«»*«**««»«'»»«'*»   «"»»*••»» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

What  a  flashing  eye  and  what  a  peach-like  cheek  ! 
What  smiling  lips  and  white  teeth!  What  soft  and 
well-washed  hands. 

When  he  speaks,  it  is  only  in  madrigals  and  per- 
fumed gallantries  of  the  best  pr'ecieux  style  and  of  the 
bravest  air ;  he  has  read  novels  and  knows  poetry  >  he 
is  valiant  and  ready  to  draw  -,  he  scatters  gold  with  a 
lavish  hand,  —  so  Angelica,  Agnes,  and  Isabella  can 
scarce  refrain  from  throwing  themselves  in  his  arms, 
well-bred  and  great  ladies  though  they  are;  and  so  the 
husband  is  regularly  betrayed  in  the  fifth  act,  and  is 
very  lucky  if  it  is  not  in  the  first. 

That  is  how  marriage  is  treated  by  Moliere,  one 
of  the  loftiest  and  most  serious  geniuses  that  have 
ever  existed.  Does  any  one  believe  there  is  any- 
thing stronger  in  the  indictments  of  "Indiana"  and 
"  Valentine  "  ? 

Paternity  is  even  less  respected,  if  it  were  possible. 
Just  see  Orgon,  Geronte,  all  the  fathers,  how  they 
are  robbed  by  their  sons,  beaten  by  their  valets  !  How, 
without  pity  for  their  age,  their  avarice,  their  obstinacy, 
their  imbecility  are  laid  bare  !  What  pleasantries  and 
practical  jokes  at  their  expense  !  How  they  are  hus- 
tled out   of  life,  these   poor  old   fellows   who  put  off 

_ 


•i*«4**|*  •!/•  *«/•  *A»  •</•  «l<*  <>!•  •!*  *l*  JUJU  ««♦  •**  #*»«JU  #*•**»  •*•  •*•  •»••»••«• 

•W    «**     *.v»     »T*     «M      WtW     MM      tw      •£*     •*»     WW     w»    «*•    •»*<•    •>*<•    •*«•    •*<•    M»    «T«    w«<«    «T»     *»•     •*»  •*"• 

PREFACE 

dying  and  who  will  not  give  up  their  money  !  How 
the  tenacity  of  life  of  parents  is  talked  of;  what  argu- 
ments against  heredity  ;  and  how  much  more  convincing 
all  this  is  than  are  the  declamations  of  a  Saint-Simon  ! 

A  father  is  an  ogre,  an  Argus,  a  jailer,  a  tyrant,  of 
no  use  save  to  delay  marriage  during  the  space  of  three 
acts  until  the  final  recognition  takes  place.  A  father  is 
the  perfectly  complete  ridiculous  husband.  Sons  never 
are  ridiculous  in  Moliere's  plays,  for  Moliere,  like  all 
authors  of  all  times,  paid  his  court  to  the  rising  genera- 
tion at  the  expense  of  the  older. 

And  the  Scapins,  with  their  capes  striped  Neapolitan 
fashion,  their  cap  cocked  on  one  ear,  their  feathers 
waving,  are  they  not  most  pious  and  chaste  individuals, 
fit  subjects  for  canonisation  ?  Penitentiaries  are  full  of 
honest  people  who  have  not  done  one  fourth  of  what 
they  have  done.  The  villanies  of  Tralph  are  pecca- 
dilloes in  comparison  with  theirs.  And  what  of  the 
Lisettes,  the  Martons  ?  Nice  young  females  truly  ! 
The  street-walkers  are  less  shameless,  less  ready  with 
libidinous  reply.  How  cleverly  they  can  smuggle  you 
a  note  !  —  how  well  keep  watch  during  a  rendezvous  ! 
On  my  word,  they  are  invaluable  young  women,  ready 
to  oblige  and  full  of  sage  counsel. 

57 


»!/»**•  *jU  »JU  *$•*  «&*  ♦&*  JU  •&*  *JU  «JU«A»d«  JU  •!•«!•  «1^»1»«A»«1»»A»  «|*  •£••!« 

»»v*    wis     «T*     •»»<•     »««•      »«>•     twi      we      e*w     «nr»     «•<•     «•*   *•»«»    «^*    «htv»    *>m    •>•«    vc*    «*V    «^W    »r»    «Tt    •*•>  •»• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

A  nice  company  it  is  that  lives  and  moves  and  has 
its  being  in  these  comedies  and  imbroglios  !  Befooled 
guardians,  cuckold  husbands,  libertine  maids,  swindling 
valets,  daughters  crazed  with  love,  debauched  sons, 
adulterous  wives.  Are  they  not  at  least  the  peers  of 
the  young  and  handsome  melancholy  heroes,  and  of  the 
poor,  weak,  oppressed,  and  passionate  women  in  the 
dramas  and  novels  of  our  popular  writers  ? 

In  all  this,  bar  the  final  dagger-thrust,  the  indispen- 
sable bowl  of  poison,  the  denouements  are  as  bright  as 
the  endings  of  fairy  tales,  and  everybody,  even  the 
husband,  is  fully  satisfied.  In  Moliere,  virtue  is 
always  kicked  out  and  beaten ;  it  is  virtue  which 
wears  horns  and  is  thrashed  by  Mascarille ;  it  is 
but  once  that,  towards  the  end  of  the  play,  morality 
puts  in  a  brief  appearance  in  the  somewhat  bourgeois 
incarnation   of  Loyal   the   constable. 

It  is  not  to  take  aught  from  Moliere's  glory  that  we 
have  said  all  this.  We  are  not  crazy  enough  to 
attempt  to  shake  this  colossus  of  bronze  with  our  puny 
arms.  Our  intention  was  merely  to  demonstrate  to 
our  pious  newspaper  writers,  whom  the  new  works 
of  the  Romantic  school  cause  to  shudder  and  shy, 
that  the  classics,  the  reading  and   imitation   of  which 

_ 


,1**1*  »1*  *JU  »jU  A+  •It*  riU  •!*  *JU  «J*  •£••!•  «A«JU»i*«i*  •!••!• •!•  •*•  •*•  •*•••• 

»7*  »»■#    *m    ««<•    *«*    *f»    Wm    »r»     •'o*    •*»    wtw    «*»  «r«  «r*  •»•  •»*•  at*  «»*  vr»  Mr*  *"•    •»<•  «*<•  *"* 

PREFACE 

they  daily  recommend,  greatly  surpass  these  works 
in   licentiousness   and   immorality. 

To  Moliere  we  might  easily  join  both  Marivaux 
and  La  Fontaine,  each  of  whom  incarnates  two  op- 
posite sides  of  the  French  mind,  and  Regnier  and 
Rabelais  and  Marot  and  many  more.  But  it  is  not 
our  intention  to  deliver  here,  because  we  are  discussing 
morality,  a  course  on  literature  for  the  use  of  those 
virgins,  our  newspaper  writers. 

In  my  opinion  there  is  no  reason  for  making  so 
much  fuss  over  so  slight  a  matter.  We  are  fortu- 
nately no  longer  in  the  days  of  fair-haired  Eve,  and 
honestly,  we  cannot  be  as  primitive  and  patriarchal  as 
they  were  in  the  Ark.  We  are  not  little  girls  prepar- 
ing for  their  first  communion,  and  when  we  play  at 
capping  rimes  we  do  not  answer  tarte  a  la  crime.  Our 
ignorance  is  pretty  learned,  and  our  virginity  has  long 
since  vanished  \  these  are  things  to  be  possessed  once 
only,  and  do  what  we  may  we  cannot  again  have  them, 
for  nothing  is  swifter  than  disappearing  virginity  and 
vanishing  illusions. 

And  perhaps  it  is  no  great  harm,  after  all,  and  the 
knowledge  of  all  things  may  be  preferable  to  the  igno- 
rance of  all  things.      That  is  a  question  the  discussion 

59 


«4«  «A*  ^jL*  «JL«  «A*  *JL*  «Jt»  «^«  «A«  »Jt«  «A*  «A»«J^  «A»  #A*  «J^  «A»  «A*  «A*  «A»  •£•  «A«  •>£•  «J>«i 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

of  which  I  leave  to  those  who  are  more  learned  than 
I.  What  is  certain  is  that  the  world  has  got  beyond 
the  stage  at  which  one  may  affect  modesty  and  maidenly 
shame,  and  I  think  that  the  world  is  too  old  a  duffer  to 
assume  to  be  childish  and  maidenly  without  becoming 
ridiculous. 

Since  its  marriage  to  civilisation  society  has  for- 
feited its  right  to  be  ingenuous  and  prudish.  There 
is  a  blush  which  beseems  the  bride  as  she  is  be- 
ing bedded,  which  would  be  out  of  place  on  the 
morrow  ;  for  the  young  wife  mayhap  remembers  no 
more  what  it  is  to  be  a  girl,  or,  if  she  does  remember 
it,  it  is  very  indecent,  and  seriously  compromises  the 
reputation  of  the  husband. 

When  perchance  I  peruse  one  of  those  fine  sermons 
which,  in  our  public  prints,  have  taken  the  place  of 
literary  criticism,  I  sometimes  feel  very  remorseful 
and  very  apprehensive,  for  there  lie  on  my  conscience 
sundry  broad  jests,  somewhat  highly  spiced,  as  may 
well  be  the  case  of  a  youth  who  is  hot-blooded  and 
high-spirited. 

Compared  with  these  Bossuets  of  the  Cafe  de  Paris, 
these  Bourdaloues  of  the  dress  circle  at  the  Opera,  or 
these    penny-a-liner    Catos    who    reprove    our   age    so 

60 


>&*»£*  *jU  **?•  *ft»  •*•  •*•  »*^  «*,»  •£*  <X»  *A*  *A»  «JU  »A»  «JU  pA»  *&•  «x»  «&•  JEL*  «JL%  «m«A* 

•n>*   »~>#    «*»    wrw    «i»     v*«     «•*     •»»     **w     «Sf*     •»♦     *r»  «W    •*<•   •-»•*   »*«    •*•   tM   m   •*•   ••»    •**    •»»  «SK* 

PREFACE 

tartly,  I  own  to  being  indeed  the  most  awful  scoundrel 
that  ever  trod  this  earth,  and  yet,  Heaven  knows, 
the  enumeration  of  my  sins,  both  mortal  and  venial, 
with  the  customary  spaces  and  leads,  would  scarcely, 
even  in  the  hands  of  the  cleverest  publisher,  make 
more  than  one  or  two  octavo  volumes  a  day,  which 
is  not  much  for  a  man  who  has  no  idea  of  entering 
paradise  in  the  next  world,  or  of  winning  the  Mon- 
thyon  prize  or  of  being  crowned  with  roses  for  vir- 
ginity in  this. 

Then  when  I  recall  that  I  have  met  under  the 
table,  and  even  elsewhere,  a  pretty  good  number  of 
these  paragons  of  virtue,  I  come  to  have  a  better  opin- 
ion of  myself,  andT  consider  that,  whatever  my  own 
defects  may  be,  they  have  one  which,  in  my  opinion, 
is  the  greatest  and  the  worst  of  all  —  hypocrisy. 

I  dare  say  that  if  we  were  to  look  closely  we  might 
find  another  little  vice  to  be  added  to  this  one,  but 
this  little  vice  is  so  hideous  that,  candidly,  I  dare  not 
name  it.  Come  near,  and  I  shall  whisper  its  name  in 
your  ear:   it   is  —  envy. 

Envy  ;    nothing  else. 

Envy  it  is  that  crawls  and  meanders  in  and  out  of 
all   these  paternal    homilies  -,    careful  though    it    is    to 

61 


•1* •£•  #1*  «JU  «JU  #Jt»  •&•  <JU  «4U  •*•  •&» #A»«1* #£•*!« #1*  •!*  «£•  «1»#1« #1*  •&»  •*•••» 

•»\«  •«*►   «*w   *r»    «^»    viw    tro    *t»    «rw    **•    wr*   •«•  «*•  •»»<•  w»  •*•  «*!<•  •>»•  «*»  *r»  •»*   •*<•  •**  •*• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 


conceal  itself,  from  time  to  time  you  see  glitter, 
above  the  metaphors  and  the  rhetorical  figures,  its 
little  flat,  viper  head.  You  catch  it  licking  with  its 
forked  tongue  its  lips  blue  with  venom ;  you  hear  it 
hissing  softly  under  some   insidious  epithet. 

I  know  that  it  is  unbearably  conceited  to  claim 
that  people  are  envious  of  you,  and  that  it  is  almost 
as  sickening  as  a  fop  who  brags  of  his  successes. 
I  am  not  braggart  enough  to  fancy  that  I  have 
enemies  and  that  men  are  envious  of  me  \  that  is  a 
piece  of  luck  which  does  not  fall  to  every  one's  share, 
and  it  is  probable  that  it  will  not  fall  to  mine  for  a 
long  while  yet ;  therefore  I  shall  speak  out  freely  and 
without  reserve,  as  one  who  is  very  much  disinterested 
in  this   matter. 

A  thing  which  it  is  easy  to  prove  to  those  who  have 
any  doubt  about  it  is  the  natural  antipathy  of  the  critic 
towards  the  poet,  —  of  the  one  who  creates  noth- 
ing towards  him  who  creates  something, — of  the 
hornet  towards  the  bee,  —  of  the  gelding  towards  the 
stallion. 

A  man  turns  critic  only  after  he  has  become  thor- 
oughly convinced  that  he  cannot  be  a  poet.     Before  he 

comes  down  to  the  wretched  business  of  looking  after 

_ 


«l*#i«  #J»  «4*  •*»  »A»  JL*  •!*  «A«  •£*•£*  •JU#i««l«#J^#i«»f*^JU«JU«|*  •!♦  •!♦•!« 

«*\»   «**    •>»•    *«*•    rr#     «™»    ot*     «r*     «f»    •»»    «!>•    •»•  •»*•   •«  •«*<•  •"»   •»•  •**   «fi>»  •<*•   w*    «M<*   *»«•  •*• 

PREFACE 

the  overcoats,  or  of  marker  in  a  billiard-room  or  a 
tennis-court,  he  has  long  courted  the  Muse  of  Poetry, 
he  has  tried  to  ravish  her,  but  he  proved  not  vigorous 
enough  for  the  task  and  fell,  pale  and  panting,  at  the 
foot  of  the  sacred  mount. 

I  understand  the  critic's  hatred.  It  is  distressful  to 
see  another  man  sit  down  to  the  banquet  to  which  one 
is  not  bidden,  or  lie  with  the  woman  who  would  have 
none  of  you.  I  pity  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  the 
poor  eunuch  who  is  compelled  to  witness  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  Grand  Seignior. 

He  is  admitted  into  the  most  secret  recesses  of  the 
Oda ;  he  takes  the  sultanas  to  the  bath  ;  he  sees,  under 
the  silvery  water  of  the  great  reservoirs,  the  sheen  of 
those  fair  forms  streaming  with  pearls  and  smoother 
than  agate ;  the  most  hidden  beauties  are  unveiled  be- 
fore him.  Whv  trouble  about  him  ?  He  is  a  eunuch. 
The  sultan  caresses  his  favourite  in  his  presence,  and 
kisses  her  luscious  lips.  A  very  awkward  situation  for 
him,  in  truth,  in  which  he  can  scarce  know  which  way 
to  look. 

It  is  the  same  with  the  critic  who  sees  the  poet 
wandering  about  the  garden  of  Poesy  with  his  nine 
lovely    odalisques    and    lazily    disport    himself   in    the 

_ 


•&•  «i»  •$*  »JU  *&*  •&•  •4»#i/«  •^•I*«l»*t»JU  Jl»^JU  •!••!•  •!••!•  A  §8»  •§•«§• 

v»v#   v«\#    «*•    «>vw    aw*     «r*»    <y«»     <y*v     «^»    «*w    »:j£»    m«  vr«   **»>»  «we  «w»   «t»  MW  ««  *•>•   •*"•    •"*    *"•  •""• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

shade  of  the  great  green  laurels.  He  finds  it  pretty 
difficult  to  keep  from  picking  up  the  stones  on  the 
highway,  to  throw  them  at  him  and  hit  him  behind  his 
wall,  if  he  be  skilful  enough  to  do  it. 

The  critic  who  has  produced  nothing  is  a  coward  ; 
he  is  like  a  priest  courting  a  layman's  wife;  the  lay- 
man can  neither  fight  the  priest  nor  seduce  his  wife. 

I  am  of  opinion  that  a  history  of  the  different 
methods  of  running  down  a  book  —  no  matter  which 
—  since  a  month  ago  down  to  the  present  day,  would 
form  a  history  at  least  as  interesting  as  that  of  Tiglath- 
Pileser  or  Gemmagog  who  invented  pointed  shoes. 

There  exists  matter  enough  for  fifteen  or  sixteen 
folio  volumes  ;  but  we  shall  take  pity  on  the  reader 
and  confine  ourselves  to  a  few  lines ;  in  return  for 
which  blessing,  we  ask  for  more  than  eternal  gratitude. 
At  a  very  distant  time,  lost  in  the  mist  of  ages- — it  is 
quite  three  weeks  ago  —  the  mediaeval  novel  flourished 
in  Paris  and  the  suburbs.  The  blazoned  surcoat  was 
highly  honoured  ;  the  Hennin  head-dress  was  not  looked 
down  upon  ;  party-coloured  trunks  were  highly  prized  ; 
daggers  were  priceless ;  pointed  shoes  adored  as  fetishes. 
Everywhere  pointed  arches,  turrets,  columns,  stained- 
glass,  cathedrals,  and  castles  ;  everywhere  damosels  and 

64 


PREFACE 

young  sirs,  pages  and  varlets,  beggars  and  mercenaries, 
brave  knights  and  fierce  lords  ;  all  of  which  things  were 
certainly  more  innocent  than  children's  games,  and  did 
no  harm  to  any  one. 

The  critic  did  not  wait  for  the  publication  of  the 
second  novel  to  begin  his  work  of  depreciation.  As 
soon  as  the  first  appeared  he  put  on  his  camel-hair 
shirt,  scattered  a  bushel  of  ashes  upon  his  head,  and, 
lifting  up  his  voice  in  loud  lamentation,  called, — 

"More   Middle  Ages  !      Nothing  but  Middle  Ages  ! 
Who  shall  deliver  me  from  the  Middle  Ages,  from  these 
Middle  Ages  which  are  not  the  Middle  Ages  at  all  ?  — 
Middle  Ages  of  pasteboard  and  terra-cotta  with  nothing 
mediaeval     about    them    but    their    name.       Oh !    the 
barons   of   iron   in   their    armour  of   steel,    with    their 
hearts    of    steel     in    their     iron     breasts  !      Oh  !    the 
cathedrals  with    ever-blooming    rose-windows,    flower- 
ing   stained-glass,  with    granite  lace-work,   and    open- 
work  trefoils,   their   serrated    gables,  and    chasuble  of 
stone   embroidered  like  a  bridal   veil,  with  their  tapers 
and  chants,  splendidly  vested   priests  and  kneeling  con-' 
gregations,  deep,  tremulous  notes  of  organs,  and  angels 
hovering   under  the  arches  against  which   flutter  their 
wings !      How  they  have  spoiled  the  Middle  Ages  for 

vol.  i  —  5  65 


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•»*  am*   «v*    vw+    wr*    •**    «w*    ***    «nw    ««•    •»•    «W  •«•  W*  •*"•  w*   «n»  vr#  «rw  *7*  •*•    •*»  w  *S» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

me,  —  my  exquisite  and  richly  coloured  Middle  Ages  ! 
They  have  plastered  them  over  with  coarse  whitewash 
and  crude  colourings !      Ah  !  ye  ignorant  daubers  who 
fancy  you  are  colourists  because  you  have  stuck  red  on 
blue,  white  on  black,  red  on  green,  you  have  seen  but 
the  outer  pellicle  of  the   Middle  Ages,  you  have  not 
discovered  their  spirit,  no  blood  flows  in  the  epidermis 
with  which  you  have  clothed  your  phantoms,  no  heart 
beats  beneath  the  steel  corslets,  no  legs  fill  the  cotton 
trunk-hose,  no  stomach,  no  breasts  are  underneath  the 
blazoned  tunics  :  these  are   clothes  with  the    outward 
semblance  of  men,  —  no  more.      So    away    with  the 
Middle  Ages  turned  out  for  us  by  the  hacks  (there  ! 
the  murder  is  out !   Hacks  !).     The  day  of  the  Middle 
Ages  is  past ;  we  want  something  else." 

And  the  public,  seeing  that  the  writers  for  the  press 
were  barking  at  the  heels  of  the  Middle  Ages,  was 
seized  with  a  great  passion  for  those  poor  mediaeval  days 
which  the  critics  thought  they  had  killed  at  one  stroke. 
The  Middle  Ages  —  helped  on  by  newspaper  opposi- 
tion—  invaded  everything:  the  drama,  the  melodrama, 
the  song,  the  tale,  poetry  ;  there  were  even  mediaeval 
vaudevilles,  and  Momus  sang  feudal  refrains. 

By  the  side  of  the  mediaeval  novel  budded  the   novel 

66 


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PREFACE 

of  rottenness,  a  very  delightful  form   of  tale,  greatly  in 
request  among  kept  women  of  a  nervous  disposition,  as 
also  among  disillusioned  cooks  of  the  female  persuasion. 
The  newspaper  writers  were  as  quickly  drawn  by  the 
stench  thereof  as   are   crows  by  a  dead  body,  and  with 
the    sharp   nib  of  their   pens  they  tore  to   pieces    and 
wickedly  did  to  death   this  unhappy  sort  of  novel,  that 
only   asked  to  prosper  and   to    rot   in    peace    upon    the 
stickv   shelves   of   circulating    libraries.       The    things 
they  said,  the  things  they  wrote  about  it !      They  called 
it   morgue  literature,  penitentiary  literature,  hangman's 
nightmare,   drunken,  butcher's   hallucinations,  delirious 
jailer's  literature.      They  gently  hinted  that  the  authors 
were  assassins   and   vampires,  that  they  had  contracted 
the  virtuous  habit  of  murdering  their  father  and  mother, 
that  they  drank  blood  out  of  skulls,  used  legbones  for 
forks,  and  cut  their  bread  with  a  guillotine. 

And  yet  they  knew  better  than  any  one  —  because 
they  had  often  lunched  with  them  —  that  the  authors  of 
these  delightful  butcheries  were  worthy  sons  of  good 
families,  debonair,  belonging  to  good  society,  wearing 
white  gloves,  fashionably  short-sighted,  feeding  by  pref- 
erence on  beefsteak  rather  than  on  human  chops,  and  as 
a  rule  drinking  claret  rather  than  the  blood  of  maidens 


•l/e  «A»  eA>%  *.jU  «JU  »j|«  •!/•  *!/*  •£/•  <*£*  ♦1-5  ffJ/oe&o  **»  ***  •!«  •&»  •£•  •*»•*•  #4«  •**  #£*  r|t 
m«  *"n»   «/*•   wr*   «rw    <vrw   •*•    «r»    «w    wr»    «v*    •*•  wiw  «***•  w«  *****  •*»•  «vw#  wo«  *w  •»•   wvw  **"•  *?• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

or  new-born  babes.  Having  seen  and  fingered  their 
manuscripts,  they  knew  very  well  that  they  were 
written  in  ink,  on  English  paper,  and  not  with  blood 
from  the  dripping  guillotine,  upon  the  skin  of  a  Chris- 
tian that  had  been  flayed  alive. 

But  no  matter  what  they  said  or  did,  the  times  wanted 
corruption,  and  the  charnel  house  was  preferred  to  the 
boudoir.  The  reader  refused  to  be  caught  save  by  a 
hook  baited  with  a  small  corpse  in  the  first  stage  of 
putrefaction.  This  is  easily  understood.  Bait  your 
line  with  a  rose,  and  the  spiders  will  have  time  to 
weave  their  web  in  the  crook  of  your  elbow  —  you  will 
catch  not  the  smallest  fish.  But  bait  it  with  a  worm 
or  a  bit  of  ripe  cheese,  and  carps,  barbels,  pikes,  and 
eels  will  leap  three  feet  out  of  water  to  catch  it.  Men 
are  not  as  unlike  fishes  as  most  people  seem  to  think. 

One  might  have  thought  the  journalists  had  turned 
Brahmin,  Quaker,  or  followers  of  Pythagoras,  or  bulls, 
so  suddenly  did  they  display  a  detestation  of  blood  and 
of  red.  Never  had  they  appeared  so  melting,  so  emol- 
lient ;  they  were  as  cream  and  buttermilk.  Two 
colours  —  sky-blue  and  apple-green  — were  alone  recog- 
nised by  them.      They   barely  tolerated   rose,  and,  had 

the  public  given  them  their  way,  they  would  have  taken 

__  _ 


*$/••!*  *t»  #JU  JU  JU  JU  #A»  «*•  *|**ir»^  •!•«§•  •§«•§•  «•*•§•»■•  •t»«J*  •!•  •£e»j&* 

„V\.   •**•    «Sw    •>#•    tw»     •»»•    •<*»•     •»»     wr«     •»•    •»•    «*•  <*»»   •*»•  «*«•  **m    •*<•   f«*   ««•  «nr»   •»•    •»>•    •»*•  •*<• 

PREFACE 

t  to  graze  on  spinach  on  the  banks  of  the  Lignon  in 
rompany  with  the  sheep  of  Amaryllis.  They  had 
exchanged  their  black  frock-coat  for  the  dove-coloured 
loublet  of  Celadon  or  Sylvander,  and  they  had  adorned 
:heir  quills  with  Burgundy  roses  and  favours  after  the 
manner  of  a  shepherd's  crook.  They  allowed  their 
hair  to  grow  long  like  children's,  and  by  using  Marion 
Delorme's  recipe  they  had  renewed  their  virginity  with 
success  equal  to  hers.  They  applied  to  literature  the 
commandment  of  the  Decalogue:  Thou  shalt  not  kill. 
Not  the  tiniest  of  murders  was  allowed,  and  a  fifth  act 
had  become  an  impossibility. 

They  looked  on  the  poniard  as  excessive,  on  poison 
as  monstrous,  on  the  axe  as  unmentionable.  They 
would  have  had  the  heroes  of  dramas  reach  the  good 
old  age  of  a  Melchisedec,  although  it  has  been  recog- 
nised from  times  immemorial  that  the  end  and  aim  of 
every  tragedy  is  the  doing  to  death  in  the  last  scene  of 
some  poor  helpless  devil  of  a  great  man,  just  as  the  end 
and  aim  of  every  comedy  is  to  join  together  in  the  bonds 
of  holy  matrimony  two  idiots  of  young  lovers  of  some 
threescore  years  each  of  them. 

It  was  about  that  time  that  I  burned  (after  having 
made  a  careful  copy,  in  accordance  with  unfailing  cus- 

_ 


•&»•£*  *lr»  *$/*  *4»  *i*  •!'•  *^»  «A*  «^»  •JU«A»JU«A»#s»  •*••*»•§•  •*•  •!••»•  #i»  •!•••• 

«»»v*  *«\»    ««.«»    &r»^    <m*     vt«    ■<«     «r*»     «m    <y^«    ov«    ••*  «w»  •*<•  •»•  *r»  wvo  •»•  •*>»  «<t*  «^»    •*<•   w**  *»<• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

torn)  two  superb,  magnificent  mediaeval  dramas,  the 
one  in  verse,  the  other  in  prose,  the.  heroes  whereof 
were  quartered  and  boiled  on  the  stage,  an  ending 
most  jovial  in  itself  and  possessing  the  merit  of  almost 
complete  novelty. 

To  conform  to  the  critic's  ideas,  I  have  since  then 
written  a  tragedy  after  the  antique,  in  five  acts,  named 
u  Heliogabalus,"  the  hero  of  which  precipitates  himself 
into  the  latrines,  a  wholly  new  situation  which  has  the 
advantage  of  involving  a  setting  yet  unknown  to  the 
stage.  I  also  have  written  a  modern  drama  vastly 
superior  to  "Antony  Arthur,  or  The  Fated  Man,"  in 
which  the  heaven-sent  idea  arrives  in  the  shape  of  a 
Strasburg  pate  de  foie  gras^  which  the  hero  consumes 
to  the  uttermost  atom,  after  having  repeatedly  com- 
mitted rape  \  a  combination  which,  remorse  being  added 
to  it,  brings  on  a  violent  attack  of  indigestion  that 
causes  his  death.  A  moral  ending,  if  ever  there  was 
one,  which  proves  that  God  is  just^  and  that  vice  is 
always   punished,  and    virtue    recompensed. 

As  for  the  monster  variety,  you  know  what  they 
have  done  to  it,  how  they  have  treated  Han  d'Islande, 
devourer  of  men,  Habibrah  the  Obeah,  Quasimodo  the 
bell-ringer,  and  Triboulet,  a  mere  hunchback  ;  all  the 

70 


•jU  •£»  #1*  cA*  «X»  «&*  •!/•  #|r*  »4»  *£•  •*•  *i»«4*  «4»  •*»  •§•  •§»  •*•  *£•  •*•  •*»  •!*  «JU  «J« 

•w   am*    •*»    •*»    ■**•     WK»    *~»     •!•     *r»     »r»    *r»    «••  •»•   •>*»  **•  •*•   *»»  **•  •*>•   •*•  •?•    •»•    •*•  *»» 

PREFACE 

curiously  swarming  race,  all  the  huge  loathsomeness 
which  my  dear  neighbour  causes  to  abound  and  to  hop 
•around  in  the  virgin  forests  and  the  cathedrals  in  his 
novels.  Neither  the  mighty  strokes  after  the  manner 
of  Michael  Angelo,  nor  the  peculiarities  worthy  of  Cal- 
lot,  nor  the  effects  of  light  and  shade  after  the  fashion 
of  Goya,  nothing,  in  short,  found  mercy  at  their  hands. 
When  he  wrote  novels  they  quoted  his  odes ;  when 
he  composed  dramas  they  sent  him  back  to  his  novels ; 
which  is  the  customary  procedure  of  newspaper  writers, 
who  always  prefer  what  one  has  done  to  what  one  does. 
Happy  the  man,  however,  whose  talent  is  acknowl- 
edged, even  by  the  newspaper  reviewers,  to  show  in  all 
his  works,  save  of  course  the  one  they  are  reviewing, 
and  who  would  merely  have  to  write  a  theological  trea- 
tise or  a  cookery-book  to  have  his  drama  considered 
admirable. 

As  for  the  novel  of  the  heart,  the  novel  of  fire  and 
passion,  whose  father  is  Werther  the  German,  and 
whose  mother  is  Manon  Lescaut  the  Frenchwoman, 
we  have  said  something,  at  the  beginning  of  this  pref- 
ace, of  the  moral  leprosy  which  strenuously  attaches  to 
it  under  pretext  of  morality  and  religion.  The  lice 
of   criticism    resemble    the   lice    of   the   human    body, 

71 


«|U  «A»  «\ft-»  »A%  •*»  •&%  »!/•  rA»  «4U  »J&»  «&*  ••»•«•  *A»  «&»  »JU»  «JL»  *$»»  •»»  e*»  •*•  •*•  •«•••* 

vm   v*v    </»»*    w    <fr*     wm    «Sr»     •>«<•     w?*     •**»     «*•    •*•   "«*    «"»>•   ~s*  •*•    w«w  »«*»   *T»   •*»"*   *«*    *■»    *"'*  •">• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

which  desert  the  dead  for  the  living.  Abandoning  the 
dead  mediaeval  novel,  the  critics  have  fastened  upon 
the  novel  of  passion,  which  has  a  tough  and  living 
skin  that   may   break  their  teeth. 

We  think,  saving  the  respect  we  entertain  for 
modern  apostles,  that  the  authors  of  these  alleged 
immoral  novels,  though  not  as  much  married  as  the 
virtuous  journalists,  have  usually  a  mother,  that  many 
have  sisters,  and  own,  too,  numerous  female  relatives ; 
but  their  mothers  and  sisters  do  not  read  novels, 
even  immoral  ones ;  they  sew,  embroider,  and  look 
after  the  house.  Their  stockings,  as  Mr.  Planard 
might  say,  are  spotlessly  white ;  they  can  stand  hav- 
ing their  legs  looked  at  —  they  are  not  blue ;  and  old 
Chrysale,  who  so  cordially  hated  learned  women, 
would  propose  them  as  models  to   Philaminte. 

As  for  these  gentlemen's  wives,  since  they  have  so 
many  of  them,  virgin  though  their  husbands  be,  it 
seems  to  me  that  there  are  certain  things  they  are 
bound  to  know  —  though,  after  all,  they  may  not 
have  taught  them  anything.  So  I  understand  that 
they  are  anxious  to  maintain  them  in  that  precious 
and  blessed  ignorance.  God  is  great  and  Mahomet 
ic  his  prophet!      Women  are  inquisitive;   Heaven  and 

72 


»#i«  *i»  *t*  *|/»  «i»  JU  #|*»  *H»  «JU  #l^»A»*4»ei»»l'9*JSi»^  JU#4»*^»*i»  •*••*•  •!• 

Iw    *«S#    •»«•    wrs    »tv>    am    •*•    «**•    •»<•    «"S»    •»>•  •""•  •*•  •*»•  •"««•   w»w  «wra  •*«  •**•  •»<•    **•   *»<•  •»• 
PREFACE 

orality  grant  that  they  satisfy  their  curiosity  more 
ritimately  than  did  Eve,  their  foremother,  and  that 
ey  do  not  go  asking  questions  of  the  serpent. 
As  for  their  daughters,  if  they  have  been  to  board- 
s-school, I  do  not  see  what  these  books  could  pos- 
>ly   teach   them. 

It  is  just  as  absurd   to   say  that  a  man  is  a  drunkard 
cause  he  describes  an   orgy,  or  a  debauchee  because 

tells  of  a  debauch,  as  to  claim  that  a  man  is  vir- 
ous  because  he  has  written  a  work  on  morality;  the 
ntrary  is  met  with  every  day.  It  is  the  characters 
at  speak,  not  the  author ;  his  hero  is  an  atheist,  it 
es  not  follow  that  he  is  one  himself.  He  makes 
igands  speak  and  act  like  brigands,  but  that  does 
>t  make  him  one.  If  it  did,  Shakespeare,  Corneille, 
d  all  tragic  writers  would  have  to  be  sent  to  the 
affbld  ;  they  have  committed  more  murders  than 
andrin  and  Cartouche  ;  yet  it  has  not  been  done, 
d  I  doubt  whether  it  will  ever  be  done,  however 
rtuous  and  moral  criticism  may  become.  It  is  one  of 
e  manias  of  these  small-brained  cads  to  constantly 
t  the  author  in  the  place  of  his  work,  and  to  have 
course  to  personalities  in  order  to  give   some  flavour 

scandal  to  their   wretched  lucubrations,  which,  they 

73 


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***  W    **-*    •»«    »rv»     wro    e^e     <yg«     4^     e«,^    ^^    pps   g^   „gfc   ,y^»   &?<*   ^^  ^^   ^,   «,"£«   «^»    ^«    «jy,  t 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPI1 

are   well  aware,   no   one   would    read   did   they   contai 
but  their  own    opinions. 

We  scarce  understand  the  drift  of  all  this  abust 
anger,  and  vituperation,  why  these  petty  Geoffrey 
should  play  the  part  of  Don  Quixotes  of  morality  an 
true  literary  policemen,  why  they  should  arrest  an 
club,  in  the  name  of  virtue,  any  idea  which  happens  t< 
trip  through  a  book  with  its  cap  cocked  the  least  littl 
bit,  or  its  skirts  raised  something  too  much.  It  is  verj: 
curious. 

The  time,  no  matter  what,  they  affirm  is  immora 
(though  we  doubt  whether  "  immoral  "  means  anything) 
and  no  better  proof  is  needed  than  the  number  of 
immoral  books  it  produces  and  the  success  they  meet 
with.  Books  are  the  product  of  manners,  not  manners 
of  books.  The  Regency  produced  Crebillon ;  it  was 
not  Crebillon  who  made  the  Regency  what  it  was. 
Boucher's  shepherdesses  were  rouged  and  free  and  easy 
because  the  marchionesses  of  his  day  were  rouged  and  of 
easy  manners.  Pictures  are  made  from  models,  not 
models  from  pictures.  I  forget  who  has  said  that 
literature  and  art  influence  manners;  whoever  he  was 
he  was  unquestionably  a  great  ass.  It  is  just  as  if  one 
said,  "  Sweet  peas  make  the  spring  grow."      On  the  con- 

74 


U  rA»  »JL  rlU  *E*   •*»  •!<•  •!<»  ***  •>§*  *5*  **»*>*o  •*•  *»»  •«»  #>§*  **»  »*»  ***  #1*  «£»  «JU  »1« 
i,  »^»    *~    *S»    f1**     -"••»    «SU     •»«•     «•<•     •>*•    •■*•    •*•  •»»<•   •*>•  «^»  •""•   •*»«  •/«"•  **•  •<•<•  ♦*•    w    vt*  *v« 


PREFACE 


ary,  sweet  peas  grow  because  it  is  springtime,  and 
merries,  because  it  is  summer-time.  Trees  bear  fruits, 
jt  fruit,  trees  assuredly,  —  a  law  eternal,  and  invariable 

its  variety.  Centuries  follow  centuries,  and  each 
is  its  results,  which  are  not  those  of  the  preceding  age  ; 
»  books  are  the  results  of  manners. 

By  the  side  of  the  moral  journalist,  under  that 
lower  of  homilies  comparable  to  rain  in  summer  in  a 
irk,  there  has  sprung  up,  between  the  planks  of  the 
lint-Simon  staging,  a  band  of  mushrooms  of  a  new 
id  curious  kind,  the  natural  history  of  which  we  shall 
)w  relate. 

They  are  the  utilitarian  critics,  —  poor  wights  whose 
>se  is  so  diminutive  that  spectacles  cannot  stay  on 
em,  and  who  yet  cannot  see  as  far  as  the  end  of  their 
ose. 

When  an  author  threw  a  book  on  their  table,  novel 

volume  of  verse,  these  gentlemen   leaned   noncha- 

atly  back  in  their  arm-chair,  balanced  it  on  its  hind- 

bs,  and  themselves  with  a  capable  air,  swelled  out  and 

id,  — 

f "  What  is  the  good  of  this  book  ?  In  what  way  can 
i  be  applied  to  the  moral  and   physical  improvement 

our  most  numerous  and  poorest  class  ?      Why,  there 

75 


«A*  •!•  #1*  #JU  JU  *J)tt  JU  *!/»  JU  •!*  *i»  «Jb  Jl»  *&•  •£*  JL»  #i»  «i»  •!•  •§•  •!•  •»•  •*••! 

•>*■>•  v>v»    «►»>»    «w    »«w     wt*    »««     c^s     «^»    tf£»    t£*    <«#  «ww  vr*  «<r»  •»»•   vtw  •/»<•  •oe  •»*»  «^«    a*"1*   •*<•  •* 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPU 

is  not  a  word  in  it  on  the  needs  of  society,  nothin 
civilising,  nothing  progressive.  How  comes  it  th^ 
men  write  verse  and  novels  that  lead  to  nothing 
which  do  not  help  on  our  generation  on  the  road  of  th 
future,  instead  of  taking  up  the  great  synthesis  of 
humanity,  and  following  out,  through  the  events  relate* 
by  history,  the  phases  of  regenerating  and  providential 
thought  ?  How  can  one  trouble  about  form,  style 
rime,  in  presence  of  such  grave  interests  ?  What  d( 
we  care  for  style,  rime,  and  form  ?  We  have  nothing 
to  do  with  them  "  (no,  poor  foxes  ;  they  are  too  green  !) 
"  Society  is  suffering  ;  it  is  torn  by  fierce  internal  con- 
vulsions "  (id  est,  no  one  cares  to  subscribe  to  usefu' 
papers).  "  It  is  the  poet's  business  to  seek  out  the  cause 
of  this  disturbance  and  to  cure  it.  He  will  find  means 
to  do  so  by  sympathising  with  his  heart  and  soul  with 
humanity/'  (Philanthropic  poets! — -how  rare  and  de- 
lightful they  would  be  !)  "  We  are  awaiting  that  poet, 
we  long  for  him.  When  he  shall  appear,  his  shall  be 
the  acclaim  of  the  crowd,  the  palms,  the  abode  in  the 
Prytaneum.    ..." 

That  is  all  right,  but,  as  we  want  our  reader  to  keep 
awake  to  the  end  .of  this  blessed  preface,  we  shall  not 
pursue    further    this    most    faithful    imitation     of    the 


»«l**l«  rJU  »JU    «st»   •.!»  JU   «4U  «i*  •^•n|*«|.<*«^«*|^»>J|*«4««4*«4*«I«*4*  «4*  •*»•£• 

i  m    •«•    m    7N    W^awU    «in»    •K»«K»«f»«r»wr»««r»  •»•  «vw  n*  *»•  •»*•*<••«••»<••»<•  •*■ 

PREFACE 

ilitarian  style,  which  is  essentially  very  soporific,  and 
io-ht  advantageously  be  substituted  for  laudanum  and 
ademic  discourses. 

No,  dolts,  fools,  and  asses  that  you  are,  a  book  can- 
)t  be  turned  into  gelatine  soup,  a  novel  is  not  a  pair  of 
amless  boots,  a  sonnet  an  automatic  syringe,  a  drama 
not  a  railway,— all  of  which  things  are  essentially  civ- 
sing  and  carry  mankind  along  the  road  of  progress. 
No  !  by  all  the  entrails  of  popes,  past,  present,  and 
ture,  no,  —  two  thousand  times  no! 
You  cannot  make  a  nightcap  out  of  a  metonymy,  a 
ir  of  slippers  out  of  a  comparison,  an  umbrella  out 
an  antithesis  ;  unfortunately,  you  cannot  stick  on 
ur  stomach  a  few  variegated  rimes  by  way  of 
listcoat.  I  am  firmly  convinced  that  an  ode  is  too 
ht  a  garment  for  winter,  and  that  if  one  put  on  a 
ophe,  an  antistrophe,  and  an  epode,  one  would  not  be 
3re  fully  clothed  than  that  Cynic's  wife  who,  history 
Is  us,  was  content  with  her  virtue  for  a  shift,  and 
mt  about  naked  as  a  new-born  babe. 
And  yet  the  famous  De  la  Calprenede  once  had  a 
at,  and  when  asked  of  what  stuff  it  was,  replied, 
5ylvander."  "  Sylvander  "  was  a  play  of  his  which 
d  just  been  successfully   performed. 

11 


•I/*  *&+  *t*  r«i/»  «JU  •*»  •£/•  •*»  «JU  #<»»  #J&»  •*»#*»  •>§•  **»  *>*>  *£»  «JU  •*»  •*•  #§*  •*•»  •*•' 

Vtv»   am*     «^»     wr+     «ro      *>t«     vr+      *»»      W*     vp»     *-*<*     «"6*    c/»»    •T*   Wi   •*%    M   •/*«    «/ri»    W    •»•     •*»»    W9W 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPI 

That  sort  of  reasoning  makes  one  shrug  one's  shoi 
ders  higher  than  one's  head,  higher  than  the  Duke  I 
Gloucester. 

People  who  claim  to  be  economists,  and  who  pr 
pose  to  reconstruct  society  from  top  to  bottom,  grave 
put   forward  such  nonsense. 

A  novel  is  useful  in  two  ways,  the  one  material,  tl 
other  spiritual,  —  if  one  may  apply  the  term  to  a  nov< 
The  material  use  is,  first,  to  the  author,  the  few  tho! 
sand  francs  which  fall  into  his  pocket  and  so  balla 
him  that  neither  wind  nor  devil  can  carry  him  off; 
the  publisher,  a  fine  blood-horse  which  plunges  ar 
paws  the  ground,  when  harnessed  to  the  cabriolet  o 
ebony  and  steel,  as  Figaro  has  it ;  to  the  paper-make 
another  mill  on  some  other  stream,  and  often  a  meai 
of  spoiling  a  fine  site  ;  to  the  printers,  a  few  tons  of  los 
wood  with  which  to  colour  their  throats  at  their  week! 
drinking  ;  to  the  circulating  library,  a  whole  lot  of  bi 
pennies  most  vulgarly  verdigrised,  and  a  mass  of  greas 
that,  were  it  properly  collected  and  turned  to  accoun 
would  render  the  whale-fishery  unnecessary.  The  spii 
itual  use  is  that  when  one  is  reading  novels  one  is  aslee[ 
instead  of  reading  useful,  virtuous,  and  progressive  new* 
papers,  or  other  indigestible  and  degrading  drugs. 


b  db  &  dt  db  &  &  4: 4:  ^dbtlrtlrtfcdb  &&&&&  tfc  :!::& 

PREFACE 

^o\v,  then,  who  will  deny  that  novels  make  for 
ilisation  ?  And  I  shall  not  speak  of  the  tobacconists, 
ccrs,  and  dealers  in  potato  chips,  who  are  each  and  all 
ply  interested  in  this  branch  of  literature,  the  paper 
d  in  it  being,  as  a  general  thing,  of  a  much  better 
ility  than  that  used  for  newspapers, 
indeed  it  is  enough  to  make  one  laugh  a  horse-laugh 
iear  those  republican  or  Simonian  gentry  talk.  First 
I  foremost  I  should  like  to  know  the  exact  meaning 
:hat  great  fool  of  a  word  with  which  they  daily  fill  up 
ir  empty  columns,  and  which  is  to  them  at  once  a 
Dboleth  and  a  consecrated  expression?  Usefulness, 
what  is  that  word  ?  What  is  it  applied  to  ? 
Fhere  are  two  sorts  of  usefulness,  and  the  meaning 
the  word  itself  is  always  relative.  What  is  useful  to 
:  man  is  of  no  use  to  another.  You  are  a  cobbler, 
I  I  am  a  poet.  It  is  of  use  to  me  that  my  first  line 
verse  should  rime  with  my  second.  A  dictionary 
rimes  is  of  great  use  to  me ;  it  would  be  of  no  use 
atever  to  you  in  patching  an  old  pair  of  boots,  and  I 
bound  to  say  that  a  cobbler's  knife  would  not  be  of 
7  profit  to  me  in  the  writing  of  an  ode.  Of  course 
i  may  reply  that  a  cobbler  is  far  above  a  poet,  and 
t  one  can  dispense  with  the  latter  much  better  than 

79 


«f/v  #v(U  #,_£,»  aJh*  #jU  «J/»  *$/»  rl/t  «JL  «iU  e|««Ao#A»«*»c4»«S»  »£%•*•  •!»•*•  •&»  ♦§»  «  i 
••*  vn»   wtw   •*»    *m    w   wiw    «r»    *>^»    «7»    vr*    *r»  *r»  *r»  w»  •»»•  mm  •/*»  m  •<*>•  •*•    •»«•  il 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPi 

with  the  former.  Without  venturing  to  cast  disci:: 
upon  the  illustrious  profession  of  the  cobbler,  whi: 
honour  as  highly  as  the  profession  of  constitute 
monarchs,  I  humbly  confess  that  I  would  rather  ha* 
gaping  seam  in  my  shoe  than  a  false  ri-me  to  my  ve 
and  that  I  would  rather  do  without  shoes  than  with 
poems.  As  I  rarely  go  out,  and  progress  more  rea 
with  my  head  than  with  my  feet,  I  wear  out  less  f 
wear  than  a  virtuous  republican  who  spends  his  w! 
time  rushing  from  one  department  to  another  to  ob 
the  contemptuous  gift  of  some  office  or  other. 

I  am  aware  that  there  are  people  who  prefer  mill 
churches,  and  the  bread  of  the  body  to  the  bread  of: 
soul.  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  such  people.  T 
deserve  to  be  economists  in  this  world  and  in  the  r 
likewise. 

Is  there  anything  absolutely  useful  on  this  earth 
in  this  life  of  ours  ?  To  begin  with,  there  is  mig 
little  use  in  our  being  on  this  earth  and  living, 
challenge  the  wisest  of  the  company  to  tell  us  what 
are  good  for  unless  it  be  not  to  subscribe  to  the  C 
stitutionnel  or  any  other  paper. 

Next,  admitting  that,  a  priori,  our  being  in  existe 
is  of  use,  what  are  the  things  really  necessary  to  sust 

80 


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PREFACE 

xistence  ?  Soup  and  meat  twice  a  day  are  all 
it  is  needed  to  fill  our  stomachs  in  the  strict  sense 
the  word.  Man,  to  whom  a  coffin  six  feet  long  and 
o  feet  wide  is  more  than  sufficient  after  his  death, 
es  not  need  much  more  room  while  alive.  A  hollow 
even  to  eight  feet  each  way,  with  a  hole  for 
sh  air,  one  cell  in  the  hive,  that  is  all  he  needs  for  a 
Iging  and  to  keep  off  the  rain.  A  blanket  properly 
iped  round  his  body  will  protect  him  against  the  cold 
well  as  would  the  most  stylish  and  well-fitting  frock- 
at  turned  out  by  Staub.  Better,  indeed. 
Thus  provided  for  he  can  literally  live.  It  is  said 
it  a  man  can  live  on  a  shilling  a  day,  but  to  barely 
ep  from  dying  is  not  living,  and  I  do  not  see  in  what 
>pect  a  city  organised  on  utilitarian  lines  would  be  a 
>asanter  residence  than  the  cemetery  of  Pere-Lachaise. 
There  is  no  one  beautiful  thing  indispensable  for 
IXC  living.  Flowers  might  be  suppressed  without  the 
>r!d  suffering  materially  from  their  loss,  and  yet  who 
>uld  be  willing  that  there  should  be  no  more  flowers  ? 
.vould  rather  do  without  potatoes  than  without  roses, 
d  I  believe  there  is  but  one  utilitarian  in  the  world 
pable  of  rooting  up  a  bed  of  tulips  and  replacing  them 
cabbages. 

L.    1—6  8 1 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPI* 



What  is  the  use   of  beauty  in  woman  ?      Provided 
woman  is  physically  well  made  and  capable  of  beariri: 
children,  she  will  always  be  good  enough  in  the  opinioj 
of  economists. 

What  is  the  use  of  music  ?  —  of  painting  ?  Wh< 
would  be  fool  enough  nowadays  to  prefer  Mozar 
to  Carrel,  Michael  Angelo  to  the  inventor  of  whit 
mustard  ? 

There  is  nothing  really  beautiful  save  what  is  of  n< 
possible  use.  Everything  useful  is  ugly,  for  it  expresse 
a  need,  and  man's  needs  are  low  and  disgusting,  like  hi 
own  poor,  wretched  nature.  The  most  useful  place  ii 
a  house  is  the  water-closet. 

For  my  part,  saving  these  gentry's  presence,  I  am  oi 
those  to  whom  superfluities  are  necessaries,  and  I  an 
fond  of  things  and  people  in  inverse  ratio  to  the  servici 
they  render  me.  I  prefer  a  Chinese  vase  with  its  man 
darins  and  dragons,  which  is  perfectly  useless  to  me,  t( 
a  utensil  which  I  do  use,  and  the  particular  talent  ot 
mine  which  I  set  most  store  by  is  that  which  enable: 
me  not  to  guess  logogriphs  and  charades.  I  woult 
very  willingly  renounce  my  rights  as  a  Frenchman  am 
a  citizen  for  the  sight  of  an  undoubted  painting  bj 
Raphael,  or  of   a   beautiful    nude  woman,  — -  Princes: 

82 


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PREFACE 

irghese,  for  instance,  when  she  posed  for  Canova,  or 
lia  Grisi  when  she  is  entering  her  bath.  I  would 
>st  willingly  consent  to  the  return  of  that  cannibal, 
larles  X.,  if  he  brought  me,  from  his  residence  in 
)hemia,  a  case  of  Tokai  or  Johannisberg;  and  the  elec- 
"al  laws  would  be  quite  liberal  enough,  to  my  mind, 
>re  some  of  our  streets  broader  and  some  other  things 
s  broad.  Though  I  am  not  a  dilettante,  I  prefer 
;  sound  of  a  poor  fiddle  and  tambourines  to  that  of 
;  Speaker's  bell.  I  would  sell  my  breeches  for  a 
ig,  and  my  bread  for  jam.  The  occupation  which 
st  befits  civilised  man  seems  to  me  to  be  idleness  or 
alytically  smoking  a  pipe  or  a  cigar.  I  think  highly 
those  who  play  skittles,  and  also  of  those  who  write 
rse.  You  perceive  that  my  principles  are  not  utilita- 
n,  and  that  I  shall  never  be  the  editor  of  a  virtuous 
per,  unless  I  am  converted,  which  would  be  very 
mical. 

Instead  of  founding  a  Monthyon  prize  for  the  reward 
virtue,  I  would  rather  bestow  —  like  Sardanapalus,. 
it  great,  misunderstood  philosopher  —  a  large  reward 
him  who  should  invent  a  new  pleasure;  for  to  me 
joyment  seems  to  be  the  end  of  life  and  the  only 
*ful  thing  on  this  earth.      God  willed  it  to  be  so,  for 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPD 


He  created  women,  perfumes,  light,  lovely  flowen 
good  wine,  spirited  horses,  lapdogs,  and  Angora  cats 
for  He  did  not  say  to  his  angels,  u  Be  virtuous,"  but 
"  Love,"  and  gave  us  lips  more  sensitive  than  the  res 
of  the  skin  that  we  might  kiss  women,  eyes  looking 
upward  that  we  might  behold  the  light,  a  subtile  sens 
of  smell  that  we  might  breathe  in  the  soul  of  the  flow 
ers,  muscular  limbs  that  we  might  press  the  flanks  oi 
stallions  and  fly  swift  as  thought  without  railway  o 
steam-kettle,  delicate  hands  that  we  might  stroke  th 
long  heads  of  greyhounds,  the  velvety  fur  of  cats,  and  th« 
polished  shoulder  of  not  very  virtuous  creatures,  and: 
finally,  granted  to  us  alone  the  triple  and  glorious  privi 
lege  of  drinking  without  being  thirsty,  striking  fire,  an<> 
making  love  in  all  seasons,  whereby  we  are  verv  mucl, 
more  distinguished  from  brutes  than  by  the  custom  ol 
reading  newspapers  and  framing  constitutions. 

By  Jupiter  !  what  a  stupid  thing  is  that  pretende< 
perfectibility  of  human  kind  which  is  being  constantly 
dinned  into  our  ears  !  In  truth,  it  would  make  it  ap 
pear  that  man  is  a  mechanism  capable  of  improvements 
and  that  a  cog-wheel  more  accurately  engaged,  a  coun 
terpoise  more  suitably  placed,  are  able  to  make  tha, 
mechanism  work  more  commodiously  and  more  easily 

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PREFACE 

When  man  shall  have  been  given  two  stomachs,  so  that 
le  can  chew  the  cud  like  an  ox  ;  eyes  at  the  back  of 
lis  head  so  that,  like  Janus,  he  can  see  those  who  are 
cutting  their  tongues  out  at  him  behind  his  back,  and 
:an  contemplate  his  posterior  in  a  less  constrained 
attitude  than  the  Venus  Callypige  of  Athens ;  when  he 
>hall  have  had  wings  stuck  into  his  shoulder-blades,  so 
:hat  he  shall  not  have  to  pay  threepence  to  go  in  a 
bus,  when  he  shall  have  had  a  new  organ  bestowed  on 
him,  —  then,  all  right,  the  word  "  perfectibility,"  will 
Degin  to  mean  something. 

With  all  these  fine  improvements  what  has  been 
done  that  was  not  as  well  and  better  done  before  the 
Deluge  ?  Has  man  succeeded  in  drinking  more  than 
he  did  in  the  days  of  ignorance  and  barbarism  (old 
style)  ?  Alexander,  the  equivocal  friend  of  handsome 
Hephaestion,  was  no  mean  toper,  though  in  his  day 
:here  existed  no  ^Journal  of  Useful  Knowledge ;  and 
[  know  of  no  utilitarian  who  could  drain  —  without 
fear  of  becoming  wine-stricken  and  swelling  to  a  size 
greater  than  that  of  Lepeintre  the  younger,  or  a  hippo- 
potamus—  the  huge  cup  he  called  Hercules'  tankard. 
iMarshal  Bassompierre,  who  drank  a  jackboot  full  to  the 
health  of  the  Thirteen  Cantons,  strikes  me  as  a  singu- 

_ 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 


larly  estimable  man  in  his  way,  and  one  very  difficult  t( 
improve  upon. 

Where  is  the  economist  capable  of  enlarging  oui 
stomach  so  that  it  shall  contain  as  many  beefsteaks  a: 
could  that  of  Milo  of  Croton,  who  ate  an  ox  ?  The 
menu  at  the  Cafe  Anglais  or  Vefour  or  at  such  othei 
famous  restaurant  as  you  please,  seems  to  me  verj 
meagre  and  oecumenical  by  the  side  of  the  menu  ai 
Trimalcion's  dinner.  Where  is  the  table  on  which  yoi 
can  now  have  served  up  in  a  single  dish  a  wild  sow  anc 
her  twelve  young  boars  ?  Who  among  us  has  eater 
sea-eels  and  lampreys  fed  on  human  flesh  ?  Do  you 
conscientiously  believe  that  Brillat-Savarin  has  improved 
on  Apicius  ?  Think  you  that  fat  swine  Vitellius  could 
fill  his  famous  Minerva  buckler  with  the  brains  of 
pheasants  and  peacocks,  with  the  tongues  of  flamingoes, 
and  the  livers  of  parrot-fish  at  Chevet's  ?  What  dc 
your  oysters  at  the  Rocher  de  Cancale  amount  to  inj 
comparison  with  those  of  the  Lucrine  lake,  for  which 
special  sea  water  was  prepared  ?  The  suburban  assig- 
nation-houses of  the  Regency  marquesses  are  wretched 
drink-shops  compared  with  the  villas  of  Roman  patri- 
cians at  Baia,  Capri,  and  Tibur.  The  cyclopean  splen-y 
dours  of  these  mighty  voluptuaries,  who  built  enduring; 

86 


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PREFACE 


„, 


onuments  for  a  day's  pleasuring,  should  make  us 
fall  prostrate  at  the  feet  of  the  genius  of  antiquity 
and  forever  strike  from  our  dictionaries  the  word 
"  perfectibility. " 

Has  a  single  additional  mortal  sin  been  invented  ? 
Unfortunately,  the  number  of  them  is  still  seven,  as  of 
yore,  the  number  of  a  just  man's  falls  in  one  day  — 
pretty  small.  I  do  not  even  believe  that  after  a  century 
of  progress  at  the  present  rate,  there  Ls  a  single  amo- 
rous man  capable  of  repeating  the  thirteenth  labour  of 
Hercules.  Can  one  make  things  pleasanter  for  one's 
goddess  than  in  Solomon's  time  ?  Many  very  illustri- 
ous scholars  and  many  very  respectable  ladies  affirm  the 
opposite,  and  declare  that  amatory  energy  is  steadily 
decreasing.  Then,  why  talk  of  progress  ?  I  know  very 
well  that  you  will  say  we  have  an  upper  and  a  lower 
Chamber,  that  universal  suffrage  is  expected,  and  the 
number  of  deputies  to  be  doubled  or  tripled.  Do  you 
think  there  is  not  enough  bad  French  spoken  from  the 
national  tribune,  and  that  there  are  not  enough  depu- 
ties for  the  wretched  job  they  have  to  do  ?  I  do  not 
see  much  use  in  collecting  two  or  three  hundred  coun- 
trymen in  a  wooden  barracks,  with  a  ceiling  painted  by 
Fragonard,  and  to  set  them  to  pottering  at  and  spoil- 

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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

ing  I  know  not  how  many  petty,  absurd,  or  abominable 
laws,  What  matters  it  whether  it  is  a  sword,  a  holy 
water  sprinkler,  or  an  umbrella  that  rules  you  ?  It  is  a 
stick  all  the  same,  and  I  am  amazed  that  progressive 
men  should  squabble  over  the  kind  of  club  which  is  tc 
be  laid  across  their  shoulders,  when  it  would  be  far 
more  progressive  and  far  less  costly  to  break  it  and  to 
throw  the   pieces  away. 

There  is  but  one  of  you  with  common-sense ;  he  is 
a  lunatic,  a  great  genius,  an  ass,  a  divine  poet  far  supe- 
rior to  Lamartine,  Hugo,  and  Byron.  It  is  Charles 
Fourrier,  the  phalansterian,  who  is  all  these  things  in 
himself.  He  alone  has  been  logical  enough  and  bold 
enough  to  carry  out  consequences  to  their  ultimate  end. 
He  affirms  without  hesitation  that  men  will  shortly 
have  fifteen-foot  tails  with  an  eye  at  the  end  °y  which  is 
assuredly  an  improvement,  and  enables  one  to  do  many! 
a  fine  thing  that  was  impossible  before, —  such  as 
smashing  an  elephant's  head  without  striking  a  blow, 
swinging  from  trees  without  having  a  rope-swing,  as 
easily  as  does  the  most  perfect  monkey,  to  do 
without  a  parasol  or  umbrella  by  merely  spreading 
one's  tail  over  one's  head  like  a  plume,  after  the  fash-? 
ion  of  squirrels,  which   do   without    umbrellas  with  no 

88 


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PREFACE 

nconvenience, —  and  other  prerogatives  too  numerous 
:o  mention.  Several^  phalansterians  indeed  claim  that 
hey  already  have  a  bit  of  a  tail,  which  would  willingly 
rrow  longer  if  Heaven  should  let  them  live  long 
enough. 

Charles  Fourrier  has  invented  as  many  kinds  of 
animals  as  the  great  naturalist  Cuvier.  He  has  in- 
dented horses  which  are  to  be  three  times  the  size 
of  elephants,  dogs  as  huge  as  tigers,  fishes  capable  of 
feeding  more  people  than  Jesus  Christ's  three  fishes ; 
i  story  which  incredulous  followers  of  Voltaire  call  a 
fish  story,  and  which  I  call  a  magnificent  parable. 
He  has  built  cities  by  the  side  of  which  Rome,  Baby- 
ion,  and  Tyre  are  but  mole-hills;  he  has  heaped  Babels 
on  Babels,  and  carried  into  soaring  heights  spirals 
more  unending  than  those  in  all  John  Martin's  en- 
gravings. He  has  invented  I  know  not  how  many 
3rders  of  architecture,  and  how  many  seasonings.  He 
has  planned  a  theatre  which  would  strike  even  Romans 
of  the  Empire  as  grandiose,  and  drawn  up  a  dinner 
menu  which  Lucius  or  Nomentanus  would  perchance 
nave  considered  sufficient  for  a  small  dinner.  He 
promises  to  create  new  pleasures,  and  to  develop  the 
jrgans  and  the  senses.      He  is  going  to  make  women 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 


more  beautiful  and  more  passionate,  men  more  robust 
and  more  capable ;  he  warrants  your  having  children, 
and  intends  to  so  diminish  the  population  of  the  world 
that  everybody  shall  be  comfortable  in  it;  which  is  more 
sensible  than  to  urge  the  proletariat  to  engender  more 
inhabitants,  and,  when  those  swarm  beyond  reason,  to 
sweep  them  off  the  streets  with  artillery,  and  to  fire 
cannon-balls  at  them  instead  of  giving  them  bread. 

Only  in  this  way  is  progress  possible.  Any  other 
is  bitter  derision,  a  witless  prank,  not  good  enough  to 
fool  even  credulous  idiots. 

The  phalanstery  is  really  an  improvement  on  the 
abbey  of  Thelema,  and  finally  disposes  of  the  Earthly 
Paradise  as  a  worn-out,  old-fashioned  concern.  Alone 
the  u  Thousand  and  One  Nights "  and  Madame 
d'Aubray's  "  Tales,"  can  successfully  compete  with  the 
phalanstery.  What  fertility  and  invention  !  There 
is  enough  in  it  to  supply  marvels  for  three  thousand 
waggon-loads  of  romantic  or  classic  poems ;  and  our 
versifiers,  whether  of  the  Academy  or  not,  are  pretty 
small  inventors  in  comparison  with  Charles  Fourrier, 
the  inventor  of  passionate  attractions.  It  is  unques- 
tionably a  great  and  lofty  idea  to  turn  to  use  move- 
ments which  hitherto  it  has  been   sought  to  repress. 

90 


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PREFACE 

Ah  !  you  claim  that  we  are  progressing.  If  to- 
morrow the  crater  of  a  volcano  opened  at  Montmartre 
land  threw  over  Paris  a  pall  of  ashes  and  a  shroud 
of  lava,  as  Vesuvius  did  of  yore  over  Stabjae,  Pompeii, 
land  Herculaneum,  and  if,  some  thousands  of  years 
later,  the  antiquarians  of  those  days  began  excavations 
and  brought  to  light  the  remains  of  the  dead  city,  tell 
me,  what  monument  would  have  remained  standing  to 
testify  to  the  splendour  of  the  great  buried,  the  Gothic 
Notre-Dame  ?  A  pretty  idea  of  our  art  would  the 
Tuileries — touched  up  by  M.  Fontaine  — give  when 
brought  to  light  !  And  how  fine  would  be  the  statues 
of  the  Louis  XV.  bridge  when  transported  into  the 
museums  of  that  day  !  And  apart  from  paintings  of 
the  old  schools,  and  the  statues  of  antiquity  or  of 
the  Renaissance  collected  in  the  gallery  of  the  Louvre, 
that  long  shapeless  passage ;  apart  from  the  ceiling 
Ingres  painted,  which  would  prevent  people  from 
believing  that  Paris  was  a  camping-ground  of  Bar- 
barians, a  village  of  the  Welch  or  the  Topinambous, 
what  might  be  dug  up  would  be  mighty  curious. 
Flint-locks  of  the  National  Guard,  firemen's  helmets, 
crowns  stamped  with  an  ugly  die, — that  is  what  would 
be  found,  instead  of  those  fine  weapons,  so  exquisitely 

91 


•**••*•  «4*  *&*  *«§»  •*»  •*/•  *&»  •&•  »&*  •*••»»  •«••*»•  •*••*»  •*••»•  •"••«• *s»  •i*  »i»«4* 

«5fc  «/«•    vr*    ***•    *rU     «»r#    »~     *v€     «*U    ««w    «**■    aw*  *l*   «»V»  •»»<•  *»<•   tw  •/«•  wr*  »»•  •»•    *ft»   •*•  vr* 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 


chased,  which  the  Middle  Ages  left  within  the  towers 
and  the  ruined  tombs,  of  the  medals  which  fill  Etrus- 
can vases  and  underlie  the  foundations  of  all  Roman 
constructions.  As  for  our  contemptible  veneered 
wood  furniture,  all  those  wretched  boxes,  so  bare,  so 
ugly,  so  mean,  that  are  called  commodes  or  desks,  all 
those  shapeless  and  fragile  utensils,  I  hope  that  Time 
would  have  pity  enough  on  them  to  destroy  the  very 
last  trace  of  them. 

We  did  once  get  it  into  our  heads  to  build  our- 
selves a  grand  and  splendid  monument.  We  were 
first  obliged  to  borrow  the  plan  from  the  old  Romans; 
then,  even  before  it  was  finished,  our  Pantheon  began 
to  give  way  below  like  a  child  with  the  rickets,  and 
swayed  like  a  dead-drunk  pensioner,  so  that  it  had  to 
be  provided  with  stone  crutches,  else  it  would  have 
fallen  flat  in  sight  of  the  whole  world  and  would  have 
afforded  food  for  laughter  to  the  nations  for  more 
than  a  century.  We  wanted  to  stick  up  an  obelisk 
on  one  of  our  two  squares  ;  we  had  to  go  and  steal 
it  in  Luxor,  and  it  took  us  two  years  to  bring  it 
home.  Ancient  Egypt  bordered  its  roads  with  obelisks 
as  we  border  ours  with  poplars ;  it  carried  bundles  of  | 
them    under    its    arms,  as    a    market-gardener    carries 

92 


PREFACE 

isparagus,  and  it  cut  a  monolith  out  of  the  slopes  of 
ts  granite  mountains  more  easily  than  we  cut  out  an 
ar-pick  or  a  toothpick.  Some  centuries  ago  they  had 
Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo;  now  we  have  Mr. 
^aul  Delaroche,  and  all  because  we  are  progressing. 

You  brag  of  your  Opera  house  ;  ten  Opera  houses 
he  size  of  yours  could  dance  a  saraband  in  a  Roman 
imphitheatre.  Even  Mr.  Martin,  with  his  lame  tiger 
md  his  poor  gouty  lion,  as  drowsy  as  a  subscriber  to 
he  Gazette^  cuts  a  pretty  small  figure  by  the  side  of 
i  gladiator  of  antiquity.  What  are  your  benefit  per- 
formances, lasting  till  two  in  the  morning,  compared 
tvith  those  games  which  lasted  a  hundred  days,  with 
:hose  performances  in  which  real  ships  fought  real 
battles  on  a  real  sea  ;  when  thousands  of  men 
earnestly  carved  each  other  —  turn  pale,  O  heroic 
Franconi  !  —  when,  the  sea  having  withdrawn,  the 
desert  appeared,  with  its  raging  tigers  and  lions,  fearful 
supernumeraries  that  played  but  once ;  when  the  lead- 
ing part  was  played  by  some  robust  Dacian  or  Panno- 
nian  athlete,  whom  it  would  often  have  been  mighty 
difficult  to  recall  at  the  close  of  the  performance,  whose 
leading  lady  was  some  splendid  and  hungry  lioness  of 
Numidia  starved   for  three   days  ?      Do  you   not  con- 

93 


■ 

*jta#A»  *1»  »ip  ♦If*  #4»  «!/•#!/»  #A»  #1%  JU  JUJ&«efc»4*^^#A»#|»*I»4U  *l*«4,»*|t 

mm  v»#   «*•   •>**   «w    ««»    «v»    *r«    ^*    m    •*»   **•  wr*  «r»  «w  «•»  «m  vr*  «cw  •*•  m*  mm  wr*  •*» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE     MAUPIN 

sider  the  clown  elephant  superior  to  Mile.  Georges  r 
Do  you  believe  Taglioni  dances  better  than  did  Arbus- 
cula,  and  Perrot  better  than  Bathyllus  ?  Admirable  as 
is  Bocage,  I  am  convinced  Roscius  could  have  given 
him  points.  Galeria  Coppiola  played  young  girls' 
parts,  when  over  one  hundred  years  old  ;  it  is  true  that 
the  oldest  of  our  leading  ladies  is  scarcely  more  than 
sixty,  and  that  Mile.  Mars  has  not  even  progressed  in 
that  direction.  The  ancients  had  three  or  four  thou- 
sand gods  in  whom  they  believed,  and  we  have  but 
one,  in  whom  we  scarcely  believe.  That  is  a  strange 
sort  of  progress.  Is  not  Jupiter  worth  a  good  deal 
more  than  Don  Juan,  and  is  he  not  a  much  greater 
seducer  ?  By  my  faith,  I  know  not  what  we  have  in- 
vented, or  even  wherein  we  have  improved. 

Next  to  the  progressive  journalists  and  by  way  of 
antithesis  to  them,  come  the  disillusioned.  These 
range  in  age  from  twenty  to  twenty-two  ;  they  have 
never  gone  beyond  the  confines  of  their  quarter,  and 
have  lain  only  with  their  housekeeper.  But  everything 
bores  them,  palls  on  them,  wearies  them  ;  they  are  un- 
interested, disillusioned,  worn  out,  inaccessible.  They 
know  beforehand  just  what  you  are  going  to  say  \  they 
have    seen    everything,   felt    everything,   borne    every- 

94 


«!•  JL«t*  #1/*  JU  JU  JU  JU  JU  JU  *^»^«l«*l»e|/»#A*  **»•*•  *A»  «4«<4^  •*•  ♦1**1* 

3»  «3»   •*••>*•    ■*!•    mi   A    •*»    m    m    *   *  n»  n»  w.  «w  •»  m»  w  *  w»  wi  w»  * 

PREFACE 

hing,  heard  everything  it  is  possible  to  feel,  see,  hear, 
3r  experience  ;  there  is  no  recess  of  the  human  heart 
;o  obscure  that  the  beams  of  their  lantern  have  not 
shone  into  it.  They  tell  you  with  the  utmost  cool- 
ness :  "  The  human  heart  is  not  like  that;  women  are 
snot  so  constituted  ;  that  character  is  not  true  to  nature." 
Or  else,  u  What  !  never  anything  but  love  and  hate, 
men  and  women  ?  Have  you  nothing  else  to  talk 
about  ?  Man,  as  a  subject,  is  worn  threadbare,  and  so 
is  woman,  since  M.  de  Balzac  has  taken  her  up.  Who 
shall  deliver  me  from  men  and  women  ?  You  fancy, 
sir,  your  fabulation  is  novel  ?  It  is  as  stale  as  stale  can 
be  ;  nothing  staler.  I  read  it,  I  forget  where,  when  I 
was  at  nurse  or  something  else  ;  it  has  been  dinned 
into  my  ears  for  ten  years  past.  Moreover,  know,  sir, 
that  there  is  nothing  of  which  I  am  ignorant,  that 
everything  is  stale  and  unprofitable  to  me,  and  that, 
were  your  idea  as  virginal  as  the  Virgin  Mary,  I 
should  none  the  less  affirm  that  I  had  seen  it  pros- 
titute itself  at  the  street-corners  to  the  veriest  cads  and 
low  fellows." 

It  is  to  these  journalists  we  owe  Jocko,  the  Green 
Monster,  the  Lyons  of  Mysore  and  many  another  fine 
invention. 

95 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPII\ 

They  are  always  complaining  of  having  to  reac 
books  and  to  see  plays.  If  they  have  to  write  about  i 
wretched  vaudeville  they  bring  in  the  almond-trees  ir 
flower,  the  lime-trees  with  their  perfumed  bloom,  the 
breezes  of  springtime,  the  scent  of  the  young  leafage 
they  set  up  for  lovers  of  nature  after  the  fashion  of 
young  Werther,  though  they  have  never  set  foot  out- 
side of  Paris,  and  could  not  tell  a  cabbage  from  a  beet, 
If  it  happens  to  be  winter  they  will  talk  of  the 
pleasures  of  the  home  fireside,  of  crackling  blazes,  and- 
irons, slippers,  reverie,  and  dozing,  and  will  not  fail  tc 
quote  the  famous  line  from  Tibullus,  — 

"  Quam  jwvat  immites  njentos  audire  cubantem  j  " 
which  will  allow  them  to  assume  the  most  charmingly 
naive  and  disillusioned  air.  They  will  pose  as  men 
insensible  henceforth  to  the  work  of  men,  whom  dra- 
matic emotions  leave  cold  and  hard  as  the  penknife, 
with  which  they  mend  their  pen,  but  they  will  yell,  all 
the  same,  like  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau,  "There  's  a  peri- 
winkle !  "  They  profess  fierce  antipathy  for  Gymnase 
colonels,  American  uncles,  cousins  of  both  sexes, 
sentimental  veterans,  romantic  widows,  and  they  try 
to  cure  us  of  our  love  of  vaudeville  by  daily  giving 
proof  in    their   articles    that    the   Frenchman   was   not 


•A*  #&•  •*•  #JU  *§»  •=»  •»•  *»»  *=•  •«•  •*•  •s»*s«  •«•  •»•  •*•  •*•  •*•  *a«  •«••§••«••§••»• 

•**   **M    «T*    *l>»    •»•     •">•     **<•     •*»     v?v»     ♦*<•     •**     *r»   wr*   •*•   w»  •*<•    *W  »N    »v»    w»   **w    «rw    «*>•  mw 

PREFACE 

born  witty.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  do  not  object  to 
this,  and,  on  the  contrary,  gladly  own  that  the  dis- 
appearance of  vaudevilles  and  comic  opera  (a  national 
genre)  in  France  would  be  a  great  blessing.  But  I 
should  like  to  know  what  kind  of  literature  these 
gentlemen  would  allow  to  take  their  place.  True,  it 
could  not  possibly  be  worse. 

Others  preach  against  bad  taste,  and  translate  Seneca, 
the  tragic  writer.  Lately,  by  way  of  bringing  up  the 
rear  of  the  procession,  a  new  and  yet  unknown  band 
of  critics  has  been  formed. 

Their  formula  of  appreciation  is  the  most  conven- 
ient, the  most  widely  applicable,  the  most  malleable,  the 
most  peremptory,  superlative,  and  victorious  that  could 
ever  be  invented  by  any  critic.  Zoi'lus  would  certainly 
not  have  suffered  by  it. 

Until  now,  when  it  was  desired  to  run  down  a  book, 
or  to  give  a  bad  opinion  of  it  to  the  ancient  and  artless 
subscriber,  incorrect  or  perfidiously  incomplete  quota- 
tions were  made  from  it ;  sentences  were  deformed, 
lines  mutilated  in  such  wise  that  the  author  himself 
would  have  owned  his  work  most  ridiculous.  He  was 
accused  of  imaginary  plagiarisms;  passages  from  his 
book   were  compared   with    passages    from    ancient  or 


VOL.    I 


97 


•A*  «4»  »JU  *4*  *s*  *s*  *&••&&  *s*  •&»«4»**»  •*••!'•  •=*•»•  •!*  •*•  •I*  •■*  •!«  ■•!••§•  •!•    < 

■*•  ww*   «i»   «v*   *£w    «rw   «X»    •**    «fw    •*•    «r»   «•  «*•  *r»  •»•  **»  *•»  vr#  «r»  «•*  •«•  •»»  «ww  aw* 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

modern  writers  that  in  no  wise  resembled  his ;  he  was 
charged,  in  the  worst  of  French,  and  with  endless 
solecisms,  with  being  unacquainted  with  his  mother 
tongue,  and  with  debasing  the  French  of  Racine  and 
Voltaire  ;  his  work  drove  readers  to  anthropophagy,  and 
his  readers  invariably  fell  victims,  within  a  week,  to 
cannibalism  or  hydrophobia.  But  all  that  sort  of  thing 
had  become  stale,  behind  the  times,  exploded  sham,  and 
ancient  history.  By  dint  of  having  dragged  its  slow 
length  along  the  notices,  reviews,  and  gossip  columns, 
the  charge  of  immorality  had  lost  its  force,  and  had 
become  so  utterly  unserviceable  that  scarce  any  paper, 
save  the  chaste  and  progressive  Constitutionnel,  was 
desperately  courageous  enough  to  revamp  it. 

So  the  criticism  of  the  future,  prospective  criticism 
was  invented.  All  at  once ;  fancy  that !  Is  it  not 
splendid,  and  does  it  not  betoken  a  fine  power  of  imag- 
ination ?  The  recipe  is  simple  and  easily  told.  The 
book  which  shall  be  praised  is  the  book  which  has  not 
yet  been  published.  The  one  that  is  just  published  is 
infallibly  detestable.  To-morrow's  will  be  splendid, 
but  it  never  is  to-morrow.  This  form  of  criticism 
proceeds  like  the  barber  who  had  on  his  sign  in  large 
letters,  —  Free  Shave  To-morrow. 

^8 


JL  •!•  #JL  •!•  #1*  JL  •!*#!,  «|r««l««l««4»«l«#i«»l««|««l%«|«  JU«i**l««l«  •A**!* 

WW*  •**»   *r»   «»»    «vw    •**•    m»    ^»    «n*»    «t«    •?•    •»•  *»•  *r»  •»•  ••«•  •*•  •*»  *rv  •»•  »r»   aww  •«»  •>• 

PREFACE 

All  the  poor  devils  who  read  the  sign  looked  forward 
to  enjoying  next  day  the  ineffable  and  supreme  delight 
of  being,  once  in  their  life,  shaved  without  money  and 
without  price,  and  their  beard  grew  six  inches  longer 
with  delighted  anticipation  during  the  night  which  pre- 
ceded the  happy  day.  But  when,  neck  enwrapped  in 
napkin,  the  barber  asked  whether  they  had  any  money 
and  told  them  to  be  ready  to  shell  out,  or  he  would 
treat  them  as  are  treated  the  purloiners  of  nuts  and  the 
appropriators  of  apples,  and  he  swore  his  biggest  oath 
that  unless  they  paid  he  would  slice  their  throats  with 
his  razor,  then  the  poor  devils,  much  cast  down  and 
crestfallen,  pointed  to  the  sign  and  its  sacrosanct  in- 
scription. "  Ha  !  ha  !  "  would  the  barber  laugh  ;  "  your 
education  has  been  neglected,  my  little  ones,  and  you 
ought  to  go  back  to  school.  The  sign  says,  c  To- 
morrow.' I  am  not  of  so  foolish  or  fantastic  humour  as 
to  give  a  free  shave  to-day  ;  my  colleagues  would  accuse 
me  of  ruining  the  business.  Come  back  last  time,  or 
when  Sunday  falls  in  the  middle  of  the  week,  and  you 
will  be  all  right.  May  I  then  rot  to  perdition  if  I  do  not 
shave  you  free,  on  the  word  of  an  honest  barber." 

Authors  who  read  a  prospective  article,  in  which  an 
existing  work  is   run   down,  always   flatter  themselves 

99 


*|*  *fc  *£,  *l*  4»  4*  4*  4»  «4**i*4*«l*«4*«i«4*4*«i*4««A*«4»4*«l*«i««A« 

•»»•  v»v*   «**  •*•   <r«    •**•   «<n    ^»    •?«    •>§>•    *r«   «v*  ■»*•  *r»  •»,»  *^«  •«*  **•  •*»  •*•  •*•  «•»  •*»  •»?• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

that  the  book  they  are  at  work  on  will  be  the  book  of 
the  future.  So  far  as  they  are  able,  they  try  to  fall  in 
with  the  critic's  views,  and  turn  social,  progressive, 
moral,  palingenetic,  mythic,  pantheist,  buchezist,  believ- 
ing that  they  shall  thus  escape  the  awful  anathema; 
but  it  is  with  them  as  with  the  barber's  customers : 
to-day  is  not  to-morrow's  eve.  Never  will  that  long- 
promised  to-morrow  dawn  upon  the  world,  for  the 
trick  is  too  useful  to  be  soon  given  up.  While  decry- 
ing  the  book  he  is  jealous  of,  and  that  he  would  fain 
destroy,  the  critic  assumes  the  air  of  the  most  generous 
impartiality.  He  makes  it  appear  that  he  would  dearly 
like  to  approve  and  to  praise,  but  he  never  does  ap- 
prove or  praise.  This  method  is  unquestionably  supe- 
rior to  that  which  may  be  called  retrospective,  and 
which  consists  in  praising  none  save  ancient  worksr 
which  are  never  read  nowadays,  and  which  disturb  noi 
one,  at  the  expense  of  modern  works,  which  we  are 
concerned  with,  and  which  more  directly  wound  self- 
love. 

On  entering  upon  this  review  of  critics  we  stated 
that  there  was  matter  enough  for  fifteen  or  sixteen 
folio  volumes,  but  that  we  should  confine  ourselves  to 
a  few  lines.      I  begin  to  fear  that  these  few  lines  prove 


ioo 


,j*  »jt»  #4*  *i*  it*  •§»  •»•  •*»  •»•  •«•  *l<»  •*»•*•  •*•  •*•  •!•  •!*  •!*  •!»  •§•  •»•  •*»  •«•  •■» 

ww   »*\»    «fw    «^»    «*•     •"*    •**     «T»     •»<*     «*>*    *t»    VI*  «*«•   «^»   •*•  •«<•   •*<•  •£•  «r*   ww  «*»    *w<0   «*•  %n» 

PREFACE 

0  be  two  to  three  thousand  yards  long  apiece,  and  re- 
emble  those  pamphlets  so  thick  that  they  cannot  be 
>ierced  by  a  penknife  thrust,  and  whose  treacherous 
itle  reads,  "A  Few  Words  on  the  Revolution,"  —  or, 
c  A  Few  Words  on  This  or  That."  The  story  of  the 
leeds,  of  the  many  loves  of  the  diva  Magdalen  de 
Vlaupin  would  run  great  danger  of  being  passed  by, 
md  it  will  readily  be  conceived  that  it  will  take  at  least 

1  whole  volume  to  sing,  as  they  deserve  to  be  sung, 
he  adventures  of  that  fair  Bradamante.  That  is  whyr 
lowever  desirous  we  may  be,  to  carry  still  further  the 
lescription  of  the  illustrious  Aristarchs  of  the  day,  we 
hall  be  satisfied  with  the  brief  sketch  we  have  just 
;iven,  and  add  a  few  reflections  on  the  simplicity  of 
>ur  debonair  fellow-poets  who,  with  the  stupidity  of  a 
)antomime  Pantaloon,  stand,  without  a  murmur,  the 
>lows  of  Harlequin's  bat  and  the  kicks  of  the  clown, 
rhey  are  like  a  fencing  master  who  should,  in  an  as- 
lault  of  arms,  cross  his  arms  behind  his  back,  and  let 
lis  opponent  pink  him  in  the  breast  without  once 
carrying ;  or  like  speeches  for  the  plaintiff  and  the 
lefendant,  of  which  the  King's  attorney's  only  should 
)e  heard ;  or  like  a  debate  in  which  reply  was 
rorbidden. 

IOI 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

The  critic  affirms  this  and. affirms  that;  he  puts  on 
airs  and  slashes  away  :  — absurd,  detestable,  monstrous, 
like  nothing  that  ever  was ;  like  everything  that  ever 
has  been.  A  new  drama  is  played  ;  the  critic  goes 
to  see  it  ;  it  turns  out  that  the  play  in  no  wise  cor- 
responds to  the  one  which,  on  the  strength  of  the  title, 
the  critic  has  evolved  for  himself;  therefore,  in  his  re- 
view, he  substitutes  his  own  play  for  the  author's.  He 
serves  up  his  erudition  in  strong  doses ;  he  pours  out 
all  the  knowledge  he  got  up  the  day  before  in  some 
library  or  other,  and  treats  in  heathenish  fashion  people 
at  whose  feet  he  ought  to  sit,  and  the  most  ignorant  of 
whom  could  give  points  to  much  wiser  men  than  he. 

Authors  bear  this  sort  of  thing  with  a  magnanimity 
and  a  patience  that  are  really  incomprehensible.  For, 
after  all,  who  are  those  critics,  who  with  their  trenchant 
tone,  their  dicta,  might  be  supposed  sons  of  the  gods? 
They  are  simply  fellows  who  were  at  college  with 
us,  and  who  have  turned  their  studies  to  less  account, 
since  they  have  not  produced  anything,  and  can  do  no 
more  than  soil  and  spoil  the  works  of  others,  like  true 
stymphalid  vampires. 

There  is  something  to  be  done  in  the  way  of  criticis- 
ing critics;  for  those  fine  contemners  who  pose  as  be- 

102 


PREFACE 

ig  so  haughty  and  difficult  to  please  are  far  from  being 
is  infallible    as    the    Holy   Father.      Such    a   criticism 
vould  more  than  fill  a  daily  paper  of  large  size.     The 
blunders  they  make  in  matters  historical  and  others,  their 
misquotations,  their  bad  French,  their  plagiarisms,  their 
foolish  babble,  their  threadbare  jokes  in  most  evil  taste, 
:heir  lack  of  ideas,  of  intelligence,  of  tact,  their  igno- 
rance of  the  simplest  things,  which  makes  them  mis- 
take  the  Piraeus  for  a  man,  and  Mr.   Delaroche   for  a 
painter,  would  afford  authors  material  enough  for  re- 
venge, without  their  having  to  do  more  than  underline 
the  extracts  and  reproduce  them  textually;  for  a  great 
writer's  commission  does   not  go  along  with  a  critic's 
commission,  and   in  order  to  avoid  errors  in  grammar, 
or  of  taste,  it  is  not  enough  to  reproach  others  with  mak- 
ing them,  as  our  critics  plainly  prove   every  day  in  the 
week.     If  it  were  men  like  Chateaubriand,  Lamartine, 
and  others  of  that  sort  who  wrote  criticisms,  I  could 
understand  people  going  down  on  their  knees  and  wor- 
shipping; but  what  disgusts  me  and  furiously  angers  me 
is  that  Messrs.  Z.,  K.,  Y.,  V.,  Q.,  X.,or  some  other  letter 
of  the  alphabet  between  Alpha  and  Omega,  should  set 
up  as  small  Quinctilians  and  scold  us  in  the  name  of 
morals  and  letters.     I  wish  there  were  a  police  ordinance 

103 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

forbidding  certain  names  to  bump  up  against  others. 
I  know  a  cat  may  look  at  a  king,  and  that  even  the 
gigantic  proportions  of  St.  Peter's  at  Rome  cannot 
prevent  the  Transteverini  filthying  its  base  in  strange 
fashion,  but  I  none  the  less  believe  it  would  be  absurd 
to  inscribe  across  certain  reputations,  "  Commit  no 
nuisance."  Charles  X.  alone  thoroughly  grasped  the 
question.  He  rendered  a  great  service  to  arts  and  civi-  [ 
lisation  when  he  ordered  the  suppression  of  the  press. 
Newspapers  are  something  like  brokers  or  horse-dealers, 
who  intervene  between  the  artists  and  the  public,  the 
king  and  the  public.  Every  one  knows  the  fine  result 
that  has  followed.  This  perpetual  barking  deadens  in- 
spiration and  spreads  such  mistrust  in  hearts  and  minds 
that  one  dare  trust  neither  poet  nor  government ;  so 
that  poesy  and  royalty,  the  two  greatest  things  in  the 
world,  become  impossible,  to  the  great  misfortune  of 
the  nations  which  sacrifice  their  well-being  to  the  petty 
satisfaction  of  reading  every  morning  a  few  sheets  of 
inferior  paper  dirtied  with  bad  ink  and  worse  style. 
There  was  no  art  criticism  under  Julius  II.,  and  I 
have  not  come  across  any  articles  of  the  day  on  Daniele 
da  Volterra,  Sebastiano  del  Piombo,  Michael  Angelo, 
Raphael,  Ghiberti  della  Porta,  or   Benvenuto    Cellini ; 

104 


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PREFACE 


and  yet  I  am  of  opinion  that,  for  people  who  had  no 
newspapers  and  who  knew  nothing  of  the  words  "art" 
or  "  artistic,"  they  had  their  fair  share  of  talent  and 
knew  their  trade  pretty  well.  The  reading  of  newspa- 
pers is  a  bar  to  the  existence  of  real  scholars  and  genu-' 
ine  artists ;  it  is  comparable  to  daily  excess,  which  lands 
you  worn  out  and  weak  on  the  couch  of  the  Muses, 
those  hard,  exacting  maids  who  will  have  none  but 
lusty  and  virgin  lovers.  The  newspaper  kills  the  book 
as  the  book  killed  architecture,  as  artillery  has  killed 
courage  and  muscular  strength.  No  one  suspects  of 
what  numberless  treasures  we  are  robbed  by  the  news- 
papers. They  take  the  bloom  off  everything  ;  they 
prevent  our  really  owning  anything,  our  having  a  book 
to  our  very  self.  At  the  theatre  they  prevent  our  being 
surprised,  and  reveal  to  us  beforehand  the  ending  of 
every  piece.  They  deprive  us  of  the  delight  of  tittle- 
tattle,  gossip,  back-biting  and  slander,  of  inventing  a 
piece  of  news,  or  of  carting  a  true  one  for  a  week 
through  all  the  drawing-rooms  of  society.  Whether 
we  will  it  or  not,  they  proclaim  ready-made  judgments ; 
they  prejudice  us  against  things  we  would  like.  They 
are  the  cause  that  dealers  in  matches,  provided  they  are 
endowed  with  memory,  talk  as  much  absurd  nonsense 

105 


4:4:  4:  4:  4:  4: 4: 4:  4: 4: 4:4:4:  tHrtfctfctfcdbtfctfc  4:  4:4: 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 



about  literature  as  do  members  of  provincial  Academies. 
It  is  to  them  that  we  are  indebted  for  hearing  all  day 
long,  instead  of  artless  notions  or  individual  idiotic  re- 
marks, ill-digested  scraps  of  newspapers  that  are  for  all 
the  world  like  omelets  raw  on  one  side  and  burned  on 
the  other;  that  we  are  pitilessly  stuffed  with  news  three 
or  four  hours  old,  already  familiar  to  babes  and  suck- 
lings. They  deaden  our  taste  and  reduce  us  to  the 
level  of  those  drinkers  of  peppered  alcohol,  of  the 
swallowers  of  files  and  scrapers,  who  find  the  finest 
wines  flavourless  and  miss  their  perfumed  and  flowery 
bouquet.  I  should  be  infinitely  obliged  to  Louis-Phi- 
lippe if  he  would,  once  for  all,  suppress  all  literary  and 
political  sheets,  and  I  should  forthwith  rime  for  him 
fine  wild  dithyrambics  in  the  freest  of  verse  and  alter- 
nate rimes,  signed,  "Your  most  humble  and  most 
faithful  subject,"  etc. 

And  let  it  not  be  supposed  that  literature  would  cease 
to  interest,  for  in  the  days  before  newspapers  were,  Paris 
was  busy  four  days  on  end  with  a  quatrain,  and  talked 
of  a  first  performance  for  six  months. 

It  is  true  that  suppression  of  the  press  would  mean 
the  loss  of  advertisements  and  of  praise  at  eighteen  pence 
a  line,   and   notoriety   would   be  less   prompt   and   less 

106 


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PREFACE 

remendously  sudden.  But  I  have  thought  of  a  very 
ngenious  way  of  filling  the  place  of  advertisements, 
f  between  now  and  the  publication  of  this  glorious 
lovel  my  gracious  sovereign  has  suppressed  the  press, 
shall  most  assuredly  use  my  method,  and  I  expect 
vonders  from  it.  The  great  day  having  come,  twenty- 
bur  criers  on  horseback,  wearing  the  publisher's  livery 
vith  his  address  on  breast  and  back,  bearing  in  their 
lands  banners  on  both  sides  of  which  would  be  em- 
broidered the  title  of  the  novel,  and  each  preceded  by 
i  tambourine  and  by  kettledrums,  should  go  through 
he  streets  of  the  city  and,  stopping  in  squares  and  at  the 
rossings  of  streets,  they  should  proclaim  in  a  loud  and 
ntelligible  voice  :  "  It  is  to-day,  not  yesterday  or  to- 
norrow,  that  is  published  the  admirable,  inimitable, 
livine  and  more  than  divine  novel  of  the  most  famous 
rheophile  Gautier,  c  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin,'  which 
lurope,  and  even  the  other  parts  of  the  world  and 
Polynesia  have  been  impatiently  expecting  for  more 
han  a  year  past.  It  is*being  sold  at  the  rate  of  five 
mndred  copies  a  minute,  and  new  editions  appear 
jvery  half-hour.  A  picket  of  municipal  guards  is  sta- 
ioned  at  the  shop  door  to  keep  back  the  crowd  and 
>revent  disorder  in  any  shape."     That  would  certainly 

107 


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*n»S»    *V     **#     V**     •**      V**      «5w      <*V      *^U      Wm      OTW      «fb    V»i»    **>•    •*••    ««•     MM    **•    *T«    WW    WfW     WtW     WW   W»V» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

be  worth  just  as  much  as  a  three-line  advertisement  in 
the  D'ebats  and  the  Courrier  fran^ais,  between  elastic 
belts,  crinoline  collars,  patent-nipple  nursing-bottles, 
Regnault's  comfits,  and  recipes  for  toothache. 

May,  1834. 


108 


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Mademoiselle   de   Ma  up  in 

it  A*  JLt  «J/»  #JU  *i*  •!•»  rfi/»  o4*  »Jt»  JL%  #**  *.!•  •*• •*»  **»  rjU  JU  dU  •*•  #1*  ef*  •*•  «A* 
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I 


YOU  complain  of  the  infrequency  of  my  letters, 
my  dear  friend.  But  what  am  I  to  write 
about,  now  that  I  am  well  and  as  fond  of 
ou  as  ever  ?  This  much  you  know  perfectly  well,  and 
t  my  age  and  with  your  fine  qualities  it  is  so  natural 
hat  it  is  almost  ridiculous  to  send  a  poor  little  sheet  of 
aper  travelling  three  hundred  miles  merely  to  say  that, 
n  vain  I  ransack  my  memory,  I  find  nothing  worth 
filing;  my  life  is  the  most  uniform  in  the  world,  and 
lothing  occurs  to  break  its  monotony.  To-day  brings 
o-morrow  just  as  yesterday  brought  to-day ;  and  with- 
•ut  making  any  pretensions  to  the  gift  of  prophecy,  I 
nay  boldly  predict  in  the  morning  what  will  befall  me 
n  the  evening. 

In  this  wise  is  my  daily  life  ordered :  I  rise,  of 
:ourse,  and  thus  begin  each  day ;  I  breakfast,  fence, 
;o  out,  return,  dine,  pay  a  few  visits  or  read.  Then  I 
50  to  bed,  just  as  I  did  the  night  before  ;  I  go  to  sleep, 
ind   my   imagination,   not   having  been  stirred  up    by 

109 


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•»*  *w#   *r»  •*•   rr#    *»»  «ii»    Wr»    •¥•    •»••»••»•  •?»  «*•  •»«•  •»*  *n»  v*v  ««•  •*•  •?»  •?•  •?»  wtw 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

novel  objects,  treats  me  only  to  a  repetition  of  the 
same  old  dreams,  which  are  as  monotonous  as  my 
waking  existence;  all  of  which  is  not  very  exciting,  as 
you  see.  And  yet  I  am  better  satisfied  with  this  son 
of  life  than  I  should  have  been  six  months  ago.  I  am 
bored,  it  is  true,  but  in  a  quiet,  resigned  way,  which 
may  not  inaptly  be  compared  to  those  dull,  soft  autumr 
days  which  are  not  without  a  secret  charm  after  the 
great  heat  of  summer. 

This  sort  of  life,  though  I  am  outwardly  reconciler 
to  it,  is  scarcely  the  one  to  suit  me ;  at  least  it  is  very 
unlike  that  of  which  I  dream,  and  for  which  I  thini 
myself  fitted.  I  am  mistaken,  perhaps,  and  this  ma) 
be  the  very  kind  of  life  for  which  I  am  fitted ;  but  ] 
find  this  difficult  to  believe,  for,  were  it  really  my 
destiny,  I  should  accommodate  myself  more  easily  tc 
it,  and  not  be  bruised  by  its  asperities  so  often  and  sc 
painfully. 

You  are  aware  of  the  irresistible  attraction  extraor- 
dinary adventures  have  for  me ;  that  I  fairly  worship 
everything  singular,  excessive,  and  perilous,  and  tha( 
I  devour  with  avidity  novels  and  books  of  travel 
No  one  on  earth,  perchance,  is  endowed  with  so  fan- 
tastic and  erratic  a  fancy  as   mine;  and   spite  of  it,  ] 



no 


±  i:  & &  :fc  db  i:  i:  dS:  4r  4:i:&£:£:  dbdbdbdbdb  4:  Adb 

1ADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

iow  not  by  what  malign  fate  it  comes  about  that 
;ver  has  an  adventure  befallen  me,  never  have  I  made 
voyage.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  going  round 
e  world  means  going  round  the  town  I  inhabit ;  on 
1  sides  the  confines  of  my  horizon  are  within  easy 
ach.  I  rub  elbows  with  reality.  My  life  is  that  of 
e  shellfish  on  the  sand-bank,  of  the  ivy  that  clings  to 
e  tree,  of  the  cricket  on  the  hearth.  Indeed,  I  won- 
;r  I  have  not  actually  taken  root. 

Cupid  is  depicted  blindfolded;  Fate  it  is  that  should 
i  thus  shown. 

For  servant  I  have  a  sort  of  heavy,  stupid  lout  who 
is  travelled  as  far  and  wide  as  the  north  wind;  who  has 
me  to  the  devil,  to  all  sorts  of  places ;  who  has  seen 
ith  his  own  eyes  all  that  my  fancy  paints,  and  cares 
3t  a  straw  for  it  all ;  who  has  been  in  the  most 
:traordinary  situations ;  who  has  had  the  most  amaz- 
g  adventures.  Sometimes  I  set  him  talking,  and  I 
vear  as  I  reflect  that  all  these  fine  things  have  hap- 
med  to  an  ass  incapable  of  thought  or  feeling,  fit 
ily  to  do  what  he  does  —  brush  clothes  and  black  boots. 

Plainly,  that  rascal's  life  should  be  mine.  On  his 
irt,  he  thinks  I  am  a  very  happy  man,  and  wonders 
-eatly  at  seeing  me  as  sad  as  I  am. 

i  II 


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•SR*    •/*•    •*»    •<*•    iw«nAit>m»wi>T«<*'  •*•   «^»  •*•  •"•   «"*»  •*•   •«*  •**»   «W    «M   W»«  «T. 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUP^ 


Not  very  interesting  all  this,  my  poor  friend,  am 
scarcely  worth  writing,  is  it  not  ?  But  as  you  insist  on; 
my  writing  to  you,  I  have  to  tell  you  my  thoughts,  m 
feelings,  my  ideas,  since  events  and  actions  are  lacking 
What  I  have  to  say  may  not  be  marked  by  muci 
orderliness  or  novelty  ;  blame  yourself  in  that  case,  fo 
you  have  willed  it. 

We  have  been  friends  from  childhood ;  we  wer 
brought  up  together ;  we  lived  our  life  in  common  fo! 
a  long  time,  and  have  been  accustomed  to  confide  t< 
each  other  our  most  secret  thoughts.  So  I  may  relat 
to  you,  without  a  blush,  all  the  nonsense  that  flit 
through  my  idle  brain ;  naught  shall  I  add  and  naugh: 
extenuate;  I  have  no  self-love  when  writing  to  you 
Therefore  I  shall  be  absolutely  truthful,  even  with  re 
spect  to  small  and  shameful  things  ;  from  you  I  sha! 
assuredly  conceal  nothing. 

Under  those  cerements  of  nonchalant  and  dejecte 
weariness  of  which  I  but  now  spoke,  stirs  at  times 
thought  benumbed  rather  than  dead,  for  melancholy' 
sweet  and  sad  tranquillity  is  not  always  with  me. 
have  relapses,  and  I  fall  a  prey  to  my  old  preoccupations 
Nothing  is  more  fatiguing  than  these  motiveless  agit? 
tions  and    these  aimless   impulses.      When  they  seiz 

112 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

ipon  me,  although  I  have  not  any  more  to  do  than  on 
my  other  day,  I  rise  very  early,  before  the  sun,  for  I 
;eem  to  myself  to  be  in  a  great  hurry  and  to  lack  time 
11  which  to  do  all  I  have  to  do.  I  jump  into  my 
;Iothes  as  if  the  house  were  on  fire,  and  mourn  over 
:very  minute  lost.  Any  one  seeing  me  then  would 
iwear  I  was  going  to  keep  a  love  tryst  or  to  receive 
noney.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  I  do  not  even  know 
vhere  I  am  going,  but  go  I  must,  and  I  feel  my  soul's 
;alvation  would  be  endangered  did  I  stay.  I  fancy 
iome  one  calls  to  me  from  without,  that  my  fate  is  just 
hen  going  down  the  street,  and  that  my  destiny  is 
ibout  to   be  settled. 

I  go  down,  with  a  staring,  surprised  look,  my  clothes 
iwry,  my  hair  ill-brushed.  Those  who  meet  me  look 
ound,  laugh,  and  take  me  for  a  young  debauchee  who 
las  made  a  night  of  it  in  a  tavern  or  elsewhere. 
3runk  I  am,  but  not  with  wine,  and  my  walk  is  un- 
teady,  like  a  drunkard's,  now  quick,  now  slow.  I 
vander  from  street  to  street  like  a  lost  dog,  nosing 
.round,  restless,  inquisitive,  turning  around  at  the  least 
ound,  making  my  way  into  every  knot  of  people,  care- 
ess  of  the  rebuff  of  those  against  whom  I  knock  up, 
nd  observing  everything  with  a  keenness  of  sight  un- 


ol.  i  — 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

possessed  by  me  at  other  times.  Then  suddenly  some- 
thing tells  me  I  am  mistaken ;  that  this  is  certainly 
not  the  place,  that  I  must  go  farther,  to  the  city's  end, 
anywhere,  and  off  I  go  as  if  the  devil  were  after  me. 
My  feet  scarcely  touch  the  ground ;  I  am  light  as  air. 
I  must  indeed  present  a  singular  appearance  with  my 
busy,  excited  look,  my  arms  going,  and  inarticulate 
sounds  coming  from  my  lips.  When  I  think  it  over 
quietly  I  laugh  at  myself  very  heartily,  but  all  the  same 
I  repeat  the  performance  the  very  next  time. 

I  should  be  greatly  puzzled  to  say  what  it  is  thai 
drives  me  to  rush  about  in  such  fashion.  I  am  in  nc 
hurry  to  get  anywhere,  for  I  am  not  going  anywhere 
I  am  not  afraid  of  being  behind  time,  for  I  am  no 
bound  down  to  any  time.  No  one  is  waiting  for  me 
and  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should  hurry  in  thi 
place. 

Can  it  be  that  my  life  needs  a  chance  to  love, 
adventure,  a  woman,  an  idea,  a  fortune,  something 
another,  and  that  I  seek  after  it  unconsciously,  drivt 
on  by  some  vague  instinct  ?  Is  it  that  my  life  seeks 
round  itself  out  ?  That  I  feel  the  need  of  going  out 
myself  and  of  my  house  ?  That  I  am  weary  of 
condition  and  seek  another  ?      Perchance  something 

114 


J/*  rl*  *i*  ri/»  «JU  •*»  #J/»  rA'*  •**•  *Jr»  •>*"»  •*"•  •*•  •£•  •*»  ***•*  *^»  •*»  #>? »  #**  **?  •*•  ♦?'•  *** 
•w+  v*0    rr+    *T+    trr*     •*»•    •*•     «T»     «**•     «^»    «f»    •*•  *»*    «f»   *»<•  •*•    •*»»  *™"*   **>•   ••V*   •»»    •*•    •»•  •*• 

V1ADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

his,  and  perchance  all  this.  Whatever  it  be,  it  is  a 
nost  unpleasant  state  of  mind,  a  feverish  irritation, 
isually  followed  by  the  flattest  depression. 

It  often  occurs  to  me  that  if  I  had  started  an  hour 
arlier,  or  if  I  had  hurried,  I  should  have  been  on  time ; 
hat  while  I  was  going  along  this  street,  the  something 
am  looking  for  was  passing  down  the  other  and  that 
.  block  of  carriages  sufficed  to  make  me  miss  what  I 
lave  been  looking  for  at  random  for  so  long  a  season, 
fou  cannot  imagine  the  deep  sadness  and  profound 
;loom  into  which  I  fall  when  I  see  the  uselessness  of 
t  all,  my  youth  passing  away  and  no  future  opening 
'efore  me.  Then  all  my  unoccupied  passions  growl  in 
ny  heart  with  low  mutterings  and  devour  one  another 
or  want  of  other  food,  like  the  animals  in  a  menagerie 
iThen  the  keeper  has  forgotten  to  feed  them.  In  spite 
'f  daily  stifled  and  hidden  disappointments,  something 
esists  in  me  and  will  not  die.  I  am  hopeless,  for  hope 
uplies  desire,  a  certain  tendency  to  wish  that  things 
/ould  happen  in  one  way  rather  than  in  another.  I 
esire  nothing  in  particular,  for  it  is  everything  that  I 
:>ng  for.  I  do  not  hope,  or  rather  I  have  ceased  to 
iope,  —  it  is  too  utterly  stupid  ;  whether  things  are  or 
iot  is  a  matter  of  profound  indifference  to  me.      What 

US 


*JU«iU  »!•  ei/»  «J*  «?JU  JU  #J/»  «!■•  «A»  #i^*A»r*»«|f»  •*••*•  •S»«W»»S»  •!(••«•  •*•  •£•* 
«m  •£«    W£»    •»*•    «T«*     »"iV»    *Sw     «*•     m    *i*    W    ere  «flF»  •*•  •»"•  •"•   •»*•  «■»  *»  •»•  W    Mt«t« 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPII! 

is    it    I    expect  ?      I    do    not    know,    but    I    keep    o 
expecting. 

Expecting  with  trembling  eagerness,  full  of  imp; 
tience,  with  sudden  starts  and  nervous  tremors,  like 
lover  awaiting  his  mistress.  Nothing  comes  ;  then 
rage  or  weep.  I  keep  on  expecting  the  heavens  t 
open  and  an  angel  to  descend  bearing  a  revelation  t 
me  ;  expecting  a  revolution  to  break  out  and  a  crow 
to  be  given  me ;  expecting  a  Madonna  of  Raphael  t 
step  out  of  the  canvas  and  to  embrace  me ;  relative: 
whom  I  have  not,  to  die  and  leave  me  wherewithal  t 
let  my  fancy  drift  adown  a  golden  stream  ;  a  hippogri 
to  take  me  and  bear  me  away  to  climes  unknown.  Bi 
no  matter  what  it  is  that  I  expect,  it  is  never  by  an 
chance  commonplace  or  mediocre. 

I  carry  this  so  far  that,  when  returned  home,  I  nev< 
fail  to  say,  "  No  one  called  ?  Are  there  no  lettei 
for  me  ?  Nothing  new  ? ':  I  know  very  well  there 
nothing,  there  can  be  nothing.  All  the  same  I  ai 
always  greatly  surprised  and  deeply  disappointed  whe 
I  hear  the  usual  answer,  "  No,  sir  ;   nothing  at  all." 

Sometimes  —  rarely,  however  —  my  thought  b( 
comes  more  concrete.  It  is,  maybe,  some  beautif 
woman,  whom  I  do  not  know  and  who  does  not  kno> 

116 


<,«X«  JL  ci«  «JU  JU  •!/•  rJ/»  *1*  •!*  »l»*i»»l»»i««Jfir»cl»  eJL»  «1<>  ,1*  *&»  «JU  *§»  •§•«!•• 

L  tnw    ^#    •»«•    •*«•     •»•    *?w     •»•     **•     *»•    •••    •■•  •*<•   •*•  ■""•  •""•   *•«•  «"•   *r«   •*>•   •»•    •*•   w  «•» 

flADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

jie,  whom  I  shall  have  met  at  the  theatre  or  at  church, 
id  who  will  not  have  even  noticed  me.  I  go  through 
/ery  part  of  the  house,  and  until  I  have  opened  the 
jor  of  the  last  room  of  all,  I  go  on  hoping  —  I  dare 
arce  say  it,  so  mad  is  it  —  that  she  has  come,  that  she 

there.  It  is  not  conceit.  I  have  so  little  self-conceit 
lat  several  women  have  very  gently  striven  to  attract 
ie,  —  so  I  am  told  by  others,  —  while  I  believed  they 
ired  nothing  for  me  and  had  never  bestowed  a  thought 
pon  me.      It  springs  from  another  cause. 

When  I  am  not  stupefied  by  dulness  and  discourage- 
ment, my  soul  revives  and  resumes  all  its  former  vig- 
lr.  I  hope,  love,  desire ;  and  my  desires  are  so 
olent  that  I  imagine  they  will  compel  all  to  come  to 
tern,  as  a  powerful  magnet  draws  to  itself  every  par- 
cle  of  iron,  distant  though  it  may  be.  That  is  why  I 
vait  the  fulfilment  of  my  wishes  instead  of  bringing  it 
>out,  and  often  enough  neglect  the  opportunities  which 
e  most  favourable  to  my  hopes.  Another  man  would 
rite  the  tenderest  note  to  his  heart's  love,  or  would 
ek  an  opportunity  to  meet  her.  I,  on  the  other 
md,  ask  of  the  messenger  the  answer  to  the  letter  I 
ive  not  written,  and  spend  my  time  imagining  the 
ost    amazing  situations    in   order  to    exhibit    myself 

117 


«J>*  #£»  «s|«  rl/*  #X*  *E*  +&*  JL»  «I*  #JU  JU  •*»#*•  •*•  ♦*»  #1*  »JL»  «1»  #1*  #*•  #1*  «JU  JU  < 

«¥>•  «w#    *rw    *r*    trr*    vr+    »m    <t*     W    *f»    *»*    •*•  *,»'*   **"  •*•  •""•   ■**•  *"*•  •«*  *^*  •»•    *■*»    *v*  < 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPI> 


to  her  I  love  in  the  most  unexpected  and  favourabl 
light.  The  stratagems  I  invent  in  order  to  drav 
near  to  her  and  reveal  my  passion  would  make  ; 
volume  thicker  and  more  interesting  than  the  u  Strata 
gems  "  of  Polybius,  As  a  matter  of  fact,  nothing  mor: 
would  be  needed  usually  than  to  say  to  a  friend,  "  Pre 
sent  me  to  Mrs.  So-and-So,"  and  to  utter  a  mytho 
logical  compliment  duly   punctuated  with   sighs. 

Any  one  hearing  me  talk  like  this  would  think  me 
fit  subject  for  a  lunatic  asylum.  Yet  am  I  a  sensibl 
fellow  enough,  and  I  have  seldom  put  my  crazy  imagin 
ings  into  action.  All  these  things  go  on  in  the  recesse 
of  my  mind ;  all  these  absurd  notions  are  careful]; 
buried  deep  within  me.  Nothing  of  them  is  visible  ex 
ternally,  and  I  enjoy  the  reputation  of  being  a  quiet 
cold  young  man,  not  much  attracted  by  women,  an« 
indifferent  to  the  pleasures  of  my  age,  —  a  belief  as  fa 
from  the  truth  as  the  beliefs  of  the  world  usually  are. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  many  things  which  have  re 
buffed  me,  some  of  my  wishes  have  been  fulfilled,  an- 
the  smallness  of  the  pleasure  this  fulfilment  has  brough 
me  has  led  me  to  dread  the  gratification  of  further  de 
sires.  You  remember  with  what  childish  ardour 
longed  to  have  a  horse  of  my  own  ;  my  mother  gave  m 

118 


•si*  *t»  *t.  rvi.  #1*  #1*  •!*  *4r*  «4*  *k  *A»*4»*4*«4«*4»  •*•»**  »**»4»  *!♦**•  •!••!•  *!• 

;    •«•  •"*    A    •*<•    »r»    •»•    •»•     «T»     *•«•    •*«•    •*•    •*•  *r»  •*•  •"*  •"•   m»  «»  «*»  *"»••  •*•    •»>•    •*•"•  vv« 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

one  quite  recently.  He  is  black  as  a  coal,  with  a  white 
star  on  the  forehead  ;  long-maned,  long-tailed,  with  a 
glistening  coat  and  slender  limbed,  exactly  as  I  wished 
him  to  be.  When  he  was  brought  to  me  my  emotion 
was  so  great  that  for  more  than  fifteen  minutes  I  re- 
mained quite  pale,  unable  to  pull  myself  together.  Then 
I  mounted  and,  without  a  word,  went  off  at  full  speed 
and  galloped  for  more  than  an  hour  straight  ahead 
across  country  in  a  state  of  delight  difficult  to  conceive. 
I  repeated  this  every  day  for  a  week  and  more,  and  I 
marvel  that  I  did  not  kill  the  horse,  or  at  the  very  least 
break  his  wind.  Little  by  little  my  great  ardour 
cooled.  I  took  to  trotting,  then  to  walking,  then  to 
riding  so  idly  that  often  my  steed  stops  without  my 
being  aware  of  it.  My  pleasure  turned  into  a  habit  far 
sooner  than  I  could  have  believed  it  possible.  As  for 
Ferragus,  —  that  is  the  name  I  have  given  him, —  he  is 
the  finest  mount  you  can  come  across.  He  has  hair  on 
his  fetlocks  soft  as  eagle's  down  ;  he  is  quick  as  a  goat 
and  gentle  as  a  lamb.  You  will  keenly  enjoy  riding 
him  when  you  come  here,  and,  although  my  riding 
craze  has  greatly  diminished,  I  am  still  very  fond  of 
him,  for  as  an  equine  he  has  an  excellent  disposition, 
and  I  honestly  prefer   him  to  many  persons.      I  wish 

119 


•f/»  «*/•  *§»  *X»  *8/»    «JL»   #•*/»  *J/»   «JL»  «sA*  ♦*»  «*»*£«  *«•  C&»  «**  ff£%  »JU  C99  «J*»  •*•  #**  *S<5  o.^ 
»»\#   W<n«     V**     «f»     rr«     «»*•     «%>»     *v»      ?fw     •>!«     *f»     *»•   WT*    «T»   •^<»   «"»»    ow«   O/VW   «*»   «^<«   «v»     «£•    «rf»  *£• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

you  could  hear  his  neigh  of  delight  when  I  go  to  the 
stables  to  pay  him  a  visit,  and  see  the  intelligent  way 
in  which  he  looks  at  me  !  These  marks  of  affection 
touch  me,  I  confess,  and  I  put  my  arm  round  his 
neck  and  kiss  him  as  tenderly,  i'  faith,  as  if  he  were 
a  handsome  maid. 

There  was  another  wish,  stronger,  fiercer,  more  con- 
tinually alive,  more  dearly  caressed,  and  for  which  I 
had  built  in  my  heart  a  lovely  house  of  cards,  a  palace  of 
fancy,  often  destroyed  and  again  rebuilt  with  despairing 
persistence,  —  the  wish  to  have  a  mistress,  a  mistress 
who  should  be  wholly  mine,  like  my  horse.  I  know 
not  whether,  had  this  dream  come  true,  I  should  not  as 
quickly  have  grown  cold  as  in  the  other  case,  but  I  do 
not  think  so.  Perhaps  I  am  wrong,  however,  and 
weariness  would  have  been  as  swift-footed.  Owing  to 
my  peculiar  disposition,  I  desire  so  frantically  what  I 
do  desire  —  though  without  taking  any  steps  to  obtain 
it  —  that  if  by  chance,  or  otherwise,  I  gain  the  object 
of  my  longing,  I  suffer  from  such  acute  moral  fatigue, 
I  am  so  worn  out  by  it,  that  I  feel  faint,  and  lack 
strength  to  enjoy  it ;  so  what  happens  to  me  without 
my  having  wished  for  it  gives  me  usually  much  more 
pleasure  than  what  I  have  ardently  desired. 

120 


•J*  #i*  #s^»  «J*  •!/•  *i»  •!/«  «vt^  rl^  »ft*  «1»  JUri*  e§»  e|«  •!•  •*»  •I*  *4^  *4»  «4*  •**  •§•  «*» 

»~    a~v»     nw     vm     «*•      «m     «m      »?»      aim     *?*     MM     •■*•    •!•    «^»    •""•   *-*<•    «*<•   V*«   **>•    «■*"•    m«     «rv*    «-r*   ort 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

I  am  twenty-two  years  old  and  my  virginity  is  gone. 
Alas  !  nowadays  virginity  in  body,  or,  worse  still,  in 
heart,  is  a  thing  unknown  at  my  age.  Besides  such 
women  as  sell  pleasure  to  men  for  money  and  who 
are  of  no  more  account  than  a  lascivious  dream,  I 
have  had,  of  course,  here  and  there,  in  some  obscure 
corner,  some  honest  or  almost  honest  women,  neither 
handsome  nor  ugly,  young  nor  old,  such  as  are  apt  to 
offer  themselves  to  young  men  who  have  no  regular 
tie  and  whose  heart  happens  to  be  unoccupied.  If 
you  are  willing  to  make  an  effort  and  if  you  have  a 
pretty  strong  dose  of  romantic  illusions,  you  can  call 
that  sort  of  thing  having  a  mistress  if  you  like.  I 
cannot,  for  my  part,  and  if  I  had  a  thousand  of  that 
sort  of  women  I  should  still  consider  my  desire  as 
unfulfilled  as  ever. 

So  I  have  yet  had  no  mistress,  and  my  sole  desire  is 
to  have  one.  The  obsession  of  this  desire  is  curious  ;  it 
does  not  spring  from  an  over-passionate  temperament, 
from  heat  of  the  blood,  or  a  first  effervescence  of 
puberty.  It  is  not  woman  whom  I  desire ;  it  is  a 
woman,  a  mistress.  I  mean  to  have  one,  and  I  shall 
have  one  before  very  long.  If  I  should  fail  in  this,  I 
confess  I  should   never  recover  from  it,  and  the  conse- 

121 


•!**!•  Je«  »§*•£•  •§*  JU  «J/«  *J/» »,!% JU  JUJU#J* »i*  «1«  «1«  «.!*  •!•  «JU#i«  #^U«A»#1# 

«t\*   «m»    *r»    vr*    v«v»     «r*    »<n*     »f«     «mn*     c7*    •»*»    *»•  wiw   •*•  •*#•   *r<»    m  «V«   vt«   *r*   *?#    «*<•    *v«  *w 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

quence  would  be  an  inward  timidity  towards  myself,  a 
dull  discouragement  that  would  seriously  influence  me 
during  the  remainder  of  my  life.  I  should  consider 
myself  imperfect  in  certain  respects,  lacking  in  balance, 
or  without  an  affinity,  deformed  in  heart  or  mind,  for  I 
ask  for  nothing  but  what  is  right  and  what  nature  is 
bound  to  give  to  every  man.  As  long  as  my  aim  is 
unattained,  I  shall  look  on  myself  as  a  child,  and  I 
shall  lack  proper  self-confidence.  To  me  a  mistress 
means  what  the  toga  meant  to  the  young  Roman. 

I  see  so  many  men,  ignoble  in  every  respect,  who 
possess  beautiful  women  whose  lackeys  they  are  scarcely 
worthy  to  be,  that  I  blush  for  the  women  —  and  my- 
self. To  see  women  crazy  about  such  cads  as  these, 
—  who  betray  and  despise  them,  —  instead  of  giving 
themselves  to  some  true  and  earnest  young  fellow  who 
would  think  himself  mighty  lucky  and  who  would  wor- 
ship them  on  bended  knee,  —  such  an  one  as  myself, 
for  instance,  —  gives  me  a  very  poor  opinion  of  the 
sex.  It  is  true  that  these  cads  crowd  every  drawing- 
room,  show  ofF  before  every  beauty,  and  are  always 
leaning  over  the  backs  of  arm-chairs,  while  I  stay 
at  home,  my  face  pressed  against  the  window-pane, 
watching  the  river  smoke  and  the  mists  rise,  while  I 

122 


«l*#4**>i*  *Jr*  *L+  **»  •4*  *4^  *4*  *^»  •ar»*s» •s»*a»»«'i» •«»••*•  •§••!•  •*••*©  #*•  *t*«l« 

•*•  *«<•   •*•   *»•   •*•    ••»•    ••«•    •»»    «*•    •**•    ■*•    mp*  •*•  *r»  •*•  «^»  •!<•  •*•  •*»  •*<•  •»»   •»•  «^*  •»• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

silently  build  in  my  heart  the  perfumed  sanctuary,  the 
wondrous  fane  in  which  I  mean  to  place  the  future 
idol  of  my  soul.  A  chaste  and  poetic  occupation,  for 
which   women   bear  you   no  gratitude  whatever. 

Women  care  very  little  for  mere  contemplators, 
but  greatly  prize  men  who  turn  their  thoughts  into 
action.  After  all,  they  are  right.  Compelled  by  their 
education  and  their  social  position  to  be  silent  and  to 
wait,  they  naturally  prefer  men  who  come  to  them  and 
speak  out  ;  they  it  is  who  relieve  them  of  a  false  and 
wearisome  position.  I  feel  the  truth  of  this,  yet  never 
in  this  world  shall  I  be  able  to  do  what  I  see  many 
others  do,  — .  rise  from  my  seat,  cross  the  room,  and  go 
to  say  without  warning  to  a  lady,  "  Your  dress  be- 
comes you  divinely,"  or,  "  Your  eyes  are  remarkably 
bright  this    evening." 

All  the  same  I  must  have  a  mistress.  But  who  is 
to  fill  the  post,  I  know  not.  Among  the  women  I 
know,  there  is  not  one  capable  of  doing  it  properly.  1 
find  in  them  but  few  of  the  qualities  I  insist  upon. 
Those  who  are  young  enough  fail  in  beauty  or  in 
sprightliness  of  wit ;  those  who  are  both  young  and 
beautiful  are  either  shockingly  and  repulsively  virtuous, 
or  do  not  enjoy  the  necessary  freedom.     Then  there 

123 


ju#a*  *4»  «jy«  *4*  *4»  •£•  •l"  *4»  «4»  •J^>«A»«4»«4*»£*«l**4*«i«*i**4*«4«  •£•  •l^^l* , 
MADEMOISELLE    DE    MjVUpFn 

is  always  round  such  women  a  husband  or  brother,  an 
aunt  or  mother,  some  relative,  sharp-eyed  and  sharp- 
eared,  who  has  either  to  be  won  over  or  thrown  out 
of  the  window.  Every  rose  has  lice ;  every  woman 
has  a  crowd  of  relatives  who  have  to  be  carefully 
removed  from  about  her,  if  one  desires  to  pluck, 
some  day,  the  fruit  of  her  beauty.  Even  the  country 
cousins,  thrice  removed,  and  whom  one  has  never 
met,  insist  on  maintaining  the  pristine  immaculate 
purity  of  their  dear  cousin.  That  is  sickening,  and 
I  should  never  be  patient  enough  to  remove  all  the 
weeds  and  cut  away  all  the  brambles  which  inevitably 
obstruct  the  approaches  to  a  pretty  woman. 

I  am  not  very  fond  of  mammas,  and  I  am  still  less 
fond  of  little  girls.  I  must  further  confess  that  mar- 
ried women  have  but  slight  attraction  for  me.  That 
kind  of  business  means  a  mixing  up  and  a  confusion 
that  disgust  me ;  I  cannot  bear  the  idea  of  partnership. 
A  woman  who  has  both  a  husband  and  a  lover  is  a 
prostitute  as  far  as  one,  and  often  both,  are  concerned. 
Besides,  I  could  not  consent  to  make  way  for  another 
man.  My  natural  pride  could  not  stoop  so  low. 
Never  shall  I  leave  because  another  fellow  has  come. 
Even    if  it    meant   loss  of  reputation  for  the  woman, 

124 


•K*  *^»    ««    «n    wi    »»    tm    n«    *?•    #»w    «r»    *•*•?<•  •**  •»*  •»<•  •«<•  **•  «**»  *r«  «*•    «.-*•»  «»»  •*• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

even  had  we  to  fight  it  out  knife  in  hand,  each  with  a 
foot  on  her  body,  —  I  should  stay.  Concealed  stair- 
cases, cupboards,  closets,  and  all  the  stage  properties 
of  adultery  would  be  of  little  use  to  me. 

I  care  very  little  for  what  is  termed  maidenly  can- 
dour, innocence  of  youth,  purity  of  heart,  and  other  fine 
things  which  look  very  well  in  verse ;  I  call  them 
simply  stupidity,  ignorance,  imbecility,  or  hypocrisy. 
Maidenly  candour,  which  means  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
a  chair,  elbows  pressed  close  to  the  side,  eyes  fixed  on 
the  point  of  the  waist,  and  not  a  word  uttered  save  by 
leave  of  the  grandparents;  innocence,  which  has  a 
monopoly  of  straight  hair  and  white  gowns  ;  purity  of 
heart,  which  wears  high-necked  dresses  because  it  has 
not  yet  swelling  bosom  or  rounded  shoulders,  these 
things  do  not,  in  truth,  strike  me  as  particularly  at- 
tractive. 

I  care  very  little  about  teaching  the  rudiments  to 
little  fools.  I  am  neither  old  enough  nor  corrupt 
enough  to  derive  any  pleasure  from  such  an  occu- 
pation, and  besides  I  should  but  ill  succeed  in  it,  for 
I  have  never  been  able  to  teach  anybody  anything, 
even  what  I  know  best.  I  prefer  women  who  read 
easily,  for  one   gets  more    quickly  to  the    end   of  the 

125 


•J/%  *§*  •sin.  «JU  •**  *A»  *JL*  #&«  <rJU  #J>%  « 1  -»  «*.•»  *1>»  «JU  •*»  •*•  r  *>  #JL»  «&»  #1*  «JL»  r*»  r*»  # *• 
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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

chapter,  and  in  all  things,  but  especially  in  love,  one 
must  consider  the  end.  In  this  respect,  I  am  not  un- 
like those  people  who  begin  a  novel  at  the  end  and 
read  the  last  chapter  first,  going  back  afterwards,  if  so 
minded,  to  the  first  page.  There  is  a  charm  about  this 
way  of  reading  and  making  love.  Details  are  enjoyed 
more  thoroughly  when  one  is  reassured  about  the  out- 
come, and  the  inversion  of  the  order  brings  about  the 
unexpected. 

So  young  girls  and  married  women  are  out  of  the 
reckoning.  It  is  therefore  among  widows  that  our 
deity  is  to  be  sought  for.  Alas!  I  much  fear  that, 
though  widows  only  are  left,  it  is  not  among  them 
that   we  shall  find  what  we  want. 

Were  I  to  take  to  loving  one  of  those  drooping 
daffodils,  wet  with  a  warm  dew  of  tears,  and  bending 
over  the  new  marble  tomb  of  a  happily  and  recently 
deceased  husband,  I  should  certainly,  before  very  long, 
be  as  wretched  as  the  late  spouse  had  been  in  his  life- 
time. However  young  and  charming  widows  may  be, 
they  have  a  drawback  from  which  other  women  are 
free :  if  one  happens  to  lose  their  good  graces  for  a 
moment,  if  but  a  cloud  obscure  love's  azure,  they  at 
once    remark    with   a   distant  and    contemptuous  air : 

126 


4»4»4»4»4»  4-  4*4.  4*  -1*4. 4*4.  4?  4*  4. 4*4*4*  4. 4. 4*  4«4« 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

u  What  is  the  matter  with  you  to-day  ?  You  are  ex- 
actly like  my  late  husband  ;  when  we  quarrelled  he 
talked  just  as  you  t  are  doing.  Very  curious,  your 
look  is  the  same,  the  sound  of  your  voice  the  same ; 
when  you  lose  your  temper  you  have  no  idea  how  like 
my  husband  you  are  —  it  is  really  startling." 

Pleasant,  is  it  not,  to  be  spoken  to  like  that  ?  There 
are  even  some  widows  shameless  enough  to  praise  the 
late  lamented  as  unblushingly  as  an  epitaph,  and  who 
compare  his  physical  and  mental  qualities  with  yours, 
much  to  your  disadvantage.  On  the  other  hand,  with 
women  who  have  but  one  or  several  lovers,  one  enjoys 
the  great  comfort  of  never  hearing  one's  predecessor 
spoken  of,  which  is  no  small  matter.  Women  are  too 
careful  of  forms  and  conventionalities  not  to  be  most 
discreetly  silent  in  such  circumstances,  and  all  matters 
of  this  sort  are  as  speedily  as  possible  relegated  to  the 
limbo  of  oblivion.  It  is  a  standing  principle  that  one 
is  always  a  woman's  first  lover. 

I  do  not  see  what  sound  argument  can  be  advanced 
against  so  well  founded  an  aversion.  I  do  not  mean 
to  imply  that  I  consider  widows  entirely  unattractive 
when  young,  pretty,  and  still  in  mourning.  They 
have  little  languishing  airs,  ways   of  letting  their  arms 

127 


•4*  ««*  «Jt»  ••J-.  *JL»  «jt*  •&•  rf /•  «**  «JU  •*»  **»  *J*»  *s«  •*♦  **»  «ir*  •**  •**  #§•  r»o  e**  •*•  «*» 

«/»\*   vnt     a^U     *N     «•«      Wa*     ***      •»<•      «^«     •¥*     *T»     •*•   ~**    ***    •""•   %nr*    •"*'•   ***+    •*<•    *^<*   •»•    «/*•    «7a  W*W 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

fall,  of  bending  their  neck  and  of  swelling  out  their 
bosoms  like  a  forlorn  turtle-dove  ;  they  have  a  whole 
series  of  delightful  blandishments  delicately  attenuated 
by  the  fact  of  their  mourning,  —  such  a  perfect  under- 
standing of  the  coquetry  of  broken  hearts,  sighs  uttered 
so  thoroughly  at  the  right  moment,  tears  that  fall  just 
when  they  should  fall,  and  which  cause  the  eyes  to 
shine  so  brilliantly.  Assuredly,  next  to  wine,  my  favour- 
ite beverage  is  a  beautiful,  crystal-clear  tear  trembling 
on  an  eyelash,  be  it  dark  or  fair.  It  is  irresistible,  and 
one  does  not  resist.  Then,  mourning  becomes  women 
so  well.  Thanks  to  the  black  they  wear,  the  fair  skin 
becomes  ivory,  snow,  milk,  marble,  anything  you  please 
that  is  white  enough  for  the  use  of  madrigal  writers ; 
the  dark  skin  becomes  merely  nutbrown  with  a  dash  of 
colour  and  flame.  It  is  great  luck  for  a  woman  to  go 
into  mourning,  and  my  reason  for  not  marrying  is 
a  fear  lest  my  wife  should  make  away  with  me  in  order 
to  wear  mourning.  All  the  same  there  are  women  who 
do  not  know  how  to  turn  their  grief  to  account,  and  so 
weep  that  their  nose  becomes  red  and  their  face  assumes 
the  look  of  the  masks  on  fountains.  To  weep  fittingly 
calls  for  much  charm  and  skill ;  lacking  these,  one  risks 
remaining  long   inconsolable.      However  great,  never- 

128 


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•v*  •««•    oaw    «*•    ok.     «*»    **•     «r»     or-     •»»    *#•    iw*  «r«  *r*  •""•  •*<•   •*•  **•  wn«  *7W  «t»    •*•   <ptw  «5» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

theless,  may  be  the  pleasure  of  causing  an  Artemisia  to 
be  unfaithful  to  the  memory  of  her  Mausoleus,  I  have 
quite  made  up  my  mind  that  I  shall  not  select  from 
among  these  lamenting  ones  the  woman  whose  heart  I 
shall  ask  for  in  exchange  for  mine. 

I  can  hear  you  ask  :  "  Whom,  then,  will  you  choose  ? 
You  will  have  none  of  maid,  wife,  or  widow.  You  do 
not  care  for  mammas,  and,  I  fancy,  you  do  not  care  any 
more  for  grandmothers.  Who  the  devil  are  you  in 
love  with  ?  '  That  is  exactly  where  the  answer  to  the 
riddle  comes  in,  and  if  I  knew  it  I  would  not  worry  as 
much  as  I  do.  Up  to  this  moment,  I  have  loved  no 
woman,  but  I  have  loved  and  still  love  Love  itself. 
Though  I  have  had  no  mistresses,  though  the  women 
I  have  possessed  have  aroused  nothing  more  than  desire 
in  me,  love  itself  I  have  experienced  and  know.  It 
was  not  this  woman  or  that  whom  I  loved,  the  one 
rather  than  the  other,  but  a  yet  unseen  woman  who 
certainly  exists  somewhere,  and  whom  I  shall  find, 
please  God.  I  know  just  what  she  is  like,  and  I  shall 
easily  recognise  her  when  we  meet. 

I  have  often  imagined  the  place  where  she  lives,  the 
dress  she  wears,  the  colour  of  her  eyes  and  hair.  Her 
voice  is  in  my  ear ;  her  step  I  should  know  among  a 

vol.  i  —  9  129 


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•w#  w   &T&    •*¥*•    ^f*#    •!*•    •?*•    •"f*    vyi#    •'F*    •*?•    #f^  •f^  **if  *^^  •**#  ^w  tf#  *«i#  **>*•  *^#    •(>•   wv*  mpv 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

thousand,  and  if  any  one  chanced  to  name  her  I  should 
turn  round,  for  she  must  bear  one  of  the  five  or  six 
names  I  have  given  her  in   fancy. 

She  is  twenty-six ;  neither  more  nor  less.  She  is  no 
longer  ignorant  and  not  yet  blasee.  Her  age  is  the  right 
one  for  love  as  it  should  be,  neither  puerile  nor  libertine. 
She  is  neither  tall  nor  short;  I  do  not  care  for  either  a 
giantess  or  a  dwarf.  I  want  to  have  a  goddess  whom 
I  can  carry  alone  from  the  sofa  to  the  bed,  but  I  should 
dislike  having  to  look  for  her  in  the  bed.  When  she 
rises  slightly  on  tiptoe  her  lips  will  be  just  the  height  of 
my  kiss.  That  is  the  correct  stature.  As  to  her  figure, 
she  is  plump  rather  than  thin  ;  I  am  a  bit  of  a  Turk 
on  this  point,  and  I  should  not  fancy  coming  across  the 
edge  of  a  bone  when  seeking  a  soft  roundness.  A 
woman  should  be  plump,  of  a  firm  plumpness  like  that 
of  a  peach  on  the  point  of  complete  ripeness,  and  that 
is  the  sort  of  plumpness  my  future  mistress  shall  be  of. 
She  is  fair,  with  black  eyes,  white-skinned  as  is  a  fair 
woman,  and  with  a  rich  colour  like  a  brunette,  with 
something  of  flame  and  sparkle  in  her  smile.  Her 
lower  lip  somewhat  full,  her  eye  swimming  in  glisten- 
ing moisture,  her  breasts  small,  round,  and  firm ;  her 
wrists  slight,  her  hands  long  and  dimpled  :  her  gait  un- 

130 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

dulating  like  an  adder,  hips  full  and  undulating;  her 
shoulders  broad,  and  the  back  of  the  neck  covered  with 
fine  hair  —  a  type  of  beauty  at  once  delicate  and  strong, 
refined  and  full  of  life,  poetic  and  real ;  a  motif  of  Gior- 
gione's  carried  out  by  Rubens. 

As  for  her  dress,  she  wears  a  dress  of  scarlet  or  black 
velvet  slashed  with  white  satin  or  silver  tissue,  the 
bodice  open  in  front,  a  great  Medici  ruff,  a  felt  hat 
capriciously  shaped,  like  that  of  Helena  Systermans,  and 
with  long  white  feathers  purled  and  crimped,  a  golden 
chain  or  a  necklace  of  diamonds  round  her  neck,  and 
numerous  large  rings  of  various  enamels  on  every  finger 
of  her  hands. 

I  will  not  allow  of  a  single  ring  or  bracelet  being 
wanting  ;  her  dress  must  be  literally  of  velvet  or  bro- 
cade ;  at  the  most  I  would  barely  permit  her  to  come 
down  to  satin.  I  prefer  rumpling  a  silk  skirt  rather 
than  a  linen  one,  and  to  cause  pearls  and  feathers  to  fall 
from  the  hair,  rather  than  natural  flowers  or  a  mere 
knot  of  ribbon.  I  am  well  aware  that  what  is  under- 
neath the  linen  skirt  is  often  as  attractive  as  what  is 
under  the  silk  skirt,  but  I  prefer  the  latter.  Thus  it  is 
that  in  my  dreams  I  have  often  presented  myself  with 
many  a  queen,  empress,  princess,  sultana,  or  famous 

J31 


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•£*  •£*   «riv»   *tf>»   +r*    *i>#   m    *i«    m    lit    «r>   w*  n«  ■*•  •»•  •»<•  «*•  «*•  *r»  •»<•  *r»  «w«  *r»  •»>• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

courtesan  for  a  mistress,  but  never  with  a  bourgeoise  or 
a  shepherdess,  and  in  my  most  erratic  desires  I  have 
never  taken  advantage  of  any  woman  on  a  carpet  of 
grass  or  in  a  bed  of  Aumale  serge.  In  my  opinion 
beauty  is  a  diamond  that  should  be  set  in  gold.  I 
cannot  conceive  a  beautiful  woman  without  a  carriage, 
horses,  lackeys,  and  all  that  goes  with  an  income  of  a 
hundred  thousand  a  year  \  between  beauty  and  riches 
there  is  harmony  ;  the  one  requires  the  other —  a  pretty 
foot  must  have  a  pretty  shoe,  and  a  pretty  shoe  needs 
carpets,  carriages,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  A  beautiful 
woman  in  mean  clothes  in  a  wretched  house  is,  in  my' 
view,  the  most  pitiable  of  sights,  and  I  could  feel  no 
love  for  her.  Only  the  rich  and  the  handsome  can  be 
in  love  without  being  ridiculous  or  pitiable.  At  that 
rate  few  people  have  the  right  to  be  in  love  ;  I  should 
be  the  very  first  barred  out,  and  yet  such  is  my  belief. 

We  shall  meet  for  the  first  time  in  the  evening, 
when  the  sun  is  setting  splendidly;  the  sky  will  glow 
with  those  light-yellow,  orange,  and  pale-green  tones 
one  sees  in  the  pictures  of  some  of  the  old  masters. 
There  will  be  a  great  avenue  of  chestnut  trees  in  bloom, 
and  of  aged  elms  full  of  wood-pigeons ;  glorious 
trees  of   a  cool  dark-green,  shades  full  of  mystery  and 

132 


•!/•  #A*  #4*  #4*  r,t*  *§*  JU  rl»  #!■•  #X»  JL*  »4»  #1*  #£•  «JU  #l«  aJL»  «£»  »A»  #A,  «&«  «1»  #1«  »A» 

•*#  am*   ««•    *r-    **•    «r»    •«••'*•    «*•«*••*<•    •••  •*•  «r»  •••  •*•  wm  m»  «t»  %-c*  «*•   •«•  •*•  •»• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

dewy  coolness;    a  few  statues,    a    few    marble    vases 
standing  out  here  and  there  in  snowy  whiteness  against 
a  background  of  verdure  ;  a  pool  of  water  on  which 
swims  the  usual  swan,  and  at  the  very  back  of  it  all  a 
chateau  of  brick  and  stone  of  the  time  of  Henry  IV., 
with  its  pointed  slate    roof,  tall    chimneys,  vanes    on 
every    gable-end,    tall,  narrow  windows.     At  one  of 
these  windows,  leaning  sadly  on  the  balcony,  the  queen 
of  my  soul  in  the  costume  I  described   a   moment  ago. 
Behind  her,  a  little  negro  holding  her  fan  and  her  par- 
rot.     You  see  nothing  is  wanting  to  my  fancy,  and  the 
whole  business  is  sheer  absurdity.     The  fair  one  lets  fall 
her  glove  ;   I  pick  it  up,  kiss  it,  and  return  it  to  her.    We 
fall  to  talking ;   I  make  a  parade  of  all  the  wit  I  do  not 
possess ;  I  say  charming  things ;  charming  things  are 
said  to  me ;  I  return  others ;   it  is  a  regular  coruscation 
of  witticisms.      In  a  word,  I  am  adorable  and  adored. 
The  supper   hour   comes   round  ;   I  am  invited,  and  I 
accept.      What  a  supper,  O  my  friend  !     And  what  a 
cook  my  fancy   can   be  !     The   wines   sparkle   in    the 
crystal  glasses  ;  the  pheasant,  golden-brown,  smokes  on 
a  blazoned  dish.     The  feast  lasts  well  into  the  night, 
and  you  need  not  be  told  that  I  do  not  return  home  to 
finish  it.     Now,  is  not  that  a  good  piece   of   imagina- 

*33 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

tive  work  ?  Nothing  could  be  simpler,  and  the  only 
wonder  is  that  it  has  not  happened  frequently. 

Sometimes  it  is  in  a  great  forest.  The  hunt  goes  by, 
the  horns  sound,  the  pack  is  in  full  cry  and  flashes 
across  the  road ;  my  beauty,  in  a  riding  habit,  is 
mounted  on  a  milk-white  Turkish  horse,  very  spirited, 
and  very  much  excited.  Although  she  is  an  excellent 
horsewoman,  it  plunges,  caracoles,  rears,  and  she  finds 
it  almost  impossible  to  hold  it  in  ;  it  bolts  and  takes 
her  straight  to  a  precipice.  I  happen  to  be  right  on 
the  spot.  I  stop  the  horse,  catch  in  my  arms  my 
princess,  who  has  fainted,  bring  her  to,  and  escort  her 
back  to  her  chateau.  What  well-bred  woman  would 
refuse  her  heart  to  a  man  who  had  just  saved  her  life  ? 
Not  one ;  and  gratitude  is  a  short  cut  which  speedily 
leads  to  love. 

You  must  own,  I  think,  that,  when  I  become 
romanesque,  I  do  not  do  it  by  halves,  and  that  I  am  as 
crazy  as  it  is  given  to  man  to  be ;  and  that  is  something, 
for  there  is  nothing  so  disagreeable  as  a  sensible  craze. 
You  must  own,  too,  that  when  I  write  letters  they  are 
volumes  rather  than  notes.  I  love  to  go  beyond 
ordinary  bounds  in  everything.  That  is  why  I  love 
you.     Do  not  laugh  overmuch  at  all  the  nonsense  I 

*34 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

have  scribbled  for  you.  I  cease  scribbling  to  turn  that 
nonsense  into  fact,  for  it  all  comes  back  to  this,  that  I 
mean  to  have  a  mistress.  I  do  not  know  whether  she 
will  prove  to  be  the  lady  in  the  park  or  the  lady  in  the 
balcony,  but  I  am  off  to  look  for  her.  My  mind  is 
made  up.  Were  she  to  conceal  herself  in  the  far 
confines  of  Cathay  or  Samarcand,  I  shall  find  her  out. 
I  will  inform  you  of  the  outcome  of  my  quest,  whether 
it  be  success  or  failure.  I  hope  it  will  be  success  ; 
pray  that  it  may,  my  dear  friend.  For  my  part,  I  am 
putting  on  my  handsomest  clothes,  and  I  leave  my 
house  firmly  determined  not  to  re-enter  it  save  accom- 
panied by  a  mistress,  conformable  to  my  views.  I  have 
dreamed  long  enough :  now  for  action. 

P.   S.     Tell     me  if    you  know  anything  of    little 

D .      What  has  become  of  him  ?      No  one  here 

knows.  Present  my  compliments  to  your  good  brother 
and  all  your  family. 


*35 


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•r\e  WK»    w*w    •»»•    «iv>    «SW    •£•    *t»    wiw    «T»    *r«    •*•  »r»  «*<•  •*•  *"•  «*•  •»•  •*•  *»«•  •*•   *r»  •»•  •*• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

*&»  ♦!*  el*  r&»  #A%  JU  ciU  JU  «4«  eJU  *&»  *|ptf4»  *4»  •&»  «ri*  «i»  »&»  «4«  «S«  e»Br»  »!"»  »J*«4» 
««>•  a£w   «**   «^»   vr*    **•    •*»•    •¥»    #£•    «^»    «?»   **•  •«»  •*'•  «t»  •»»  •*»  **»  •*•  *v  •»•   •»<•  »"»*•  ♦»» 

II 

WELL,  my  friend,  I  am  at  home  again  ;  I  have 
not  been  to  Cathay,  Cashmere,  or  Samar- 
cand,  but  I  am  bound  to  say  that  I  have 
no  mistress  yet,  although  I  had  clasped  my  own  hand 
and  sworn  a  great  oath  that  I  would  go  to  the  world's 
end  —  I  did  not  even  go  to  the  city's  gates.  I  do  not 
know  how  it  comes  about,  but,  the  devil  is  in  it,  I 
have  never  been  able  to  keep  a  promise  made  to  any 
one,  not  even  to  myself.  If  I  say,  I  shall  go  there  to- 
morrow, you  may  be  sure  I  shall  stop  at  home  ;  if  I 
mean  to  go  to  church,  the  road  gets  tangled  around 
my  feet  like  a  skein  of  thread,  and  I  find  myself  in 
quite  another  place.  I  fast  when  it  was  my  inten- 
tion to  enjoy  an  orgy,  and  so  on.  I  therefore  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  what  prevents  my  having 
a  mistress  is  that  I   have  resolved  to  have  one. 

I  must  relate  my  expedition  to  you  in  detail ;  it  is 
well  worth  telling.  I  had  spent  that  day  two  full 
hours  in  dressing.  I  had  my  hair  curled,  my  small 
moustaches  twisted  and  waxed,  while  the  warmth  of 
desire  flushing  somewhat  my  usually  pale  complexion, 

136 


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•fn   »^v»    «vw    am*    •>■*     «m    mm     •?»     viw     ae»     »*»    *ro  wr*   •»•   «v«  ot-»   »r«  «*«   •?•   «7o   •"?•    or*    «>*-*  •»* 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

I  really  did  not  look  badly.  In  short,  after  having 
carefully  studied  my  appearance  in  the  mirror  from 
different  points,  to  ascertain  whether  I  was  handsome 
enough  and  whether  my  mien  was  properly  gallant,  I 
resolutely  sallied  forth,  head  up,  nose  in  the  air,  firm 
glance,  hand  on  hip,  and  the  heels  of  my  boots  clank- 
ing like  a  corporal's,  brushing  aside  the  bourgeois,  and 
having  a  perfectly  victorious  and  triumphant  air. 

I  was  like  a  new  Jason  going  to  the  conquest  of  the 
Golden  Fleece.  But  Jason  was  luckier  than  I,  for 
besides  carrying  off  the  fleece,  he  also  bore  away  a 
princess,  and  I  —  I  have  neither  princess  nor  fleece. 

So  I  went  trotting  through  the  streets,  noting  every 
woman,  hastening  to  her  and  examining  her  closely, 
when  she  struck  me  as  worth  examining.  Some  as- 
sumed a  highly  virtuous  air,  and  passed  on  without  a 
look.  Others  were  surprised  at  first,  then  smiled  —  if 
they  had  fine  teeth.  A  few  turned  after  a  time  to  look 
at  me  when  they  thought  I  was  not  looking  at  them, 
and  blushed  crimson  when  they  found  my  face  close  to 
theirs.  The  weather  was  fine,  and  crowds  of  people 
were  out  walking.  And  yet  I  must  confess,  spite 
of  the  respect  I  have  for  that  interesting  moiety  of  man- 
kind whom  we  are  in  the  habit  of  calling  the  fair  sex, 

1.37 


*JU  «*-•  *JU  #A%  #A*  •£*  9fj%  #JL»  ♦*»  »£*  #JL»  #*»«pl*  «&*  «JU  gvjU  el*  •&*  el?  «J*  *&•  **•  •*•  •>§• 
^«  •/«•    w»    «»<•    •>"»■«*    «**•    «»\»    *r»    *ra    •*»    •»»<•    «>•  *nr*  w  w»  •*«  •*»  vr«  «5\»  «^»  *?»   •w*  wr»  */*** 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

that  out  of  one  hundred  women  there  was  scarcely  one 
that  would  pass  muster.  One  had  a  moustache, 
another's  nose  was  blue  -,  others  had  red  spots  in  place 
of  eyebrows  ;  another  again  had  rather  a  good  figure,  but 
her  face  was  blotched.  Still  another  had  a  lovely  head, 
but  she  could  have  scratched  her  ear  with  her  shoulder  ; 
the  perfect  form  and  the  softness  of  certain  contours 
of  a  third  would  have  shamed  Praxiteles,  but  she  skated 
along  on  feet  the  size  of  Turkish  stirrups.  Another 
displayed  the  most  superb  shoulders,  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  shape  and  size  of  her  hands  recalled  the 
enormous  scarlet  gloves  which  glove-makers  hang  up 
as  a  sign;  and,  in  general,  the  faces  were  so  drawn, 
they  were  so  faded,  crinkled,  and  ignobly  worn-looking 
through  mean  passions  and  mean  vices.  They  bore 
such  expressions  of  envy,  wicked  curiosity,  avidity,  bold 
coquetry.  And  a  woman  who  is  not  handsome  is 
uglier  than  a  man  who  is  not  handsome. 

I  saw  not  one  worth  looking  at,  save  a  few  grisettes ; 
but  with  these  it  is  not  silk  but  linen  you  rumple,  and 
that  does  not  suit  me.  Of  a  truth,  I  believe  man,  and 
in  man  I  include  woman,  is  the  ugliest  creature  on 
earth.  It  strikes  me  as  very  presumptuous  that  this 
quadruped  that  struts  on   its  hind-legs  should    assume 

^38~ 


•A*  #x*  tX%  *!/•  *JU  *JL*  ♦i*  *!*  JU  •£%  •£*  •§»«£•  #JU  #1«  »t»  *JU  #A*  JU  •*•  #**  •>■*  #*•  *i» 

•rt*  v»#    •*<•    *»>•    wn»     »r*    •«<•     *r*     •*<•     •»•    •»•    •»•  *T»   •>»»  «f»  •*<•   •»»»  *»*   •*«   Wf>«   *^v»    hm    w»  v£» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

the  highest  rank  in  creation.  A  lion  or  a  tiger  is  much 
handsomer  than  a  man,  and  among  these  species  many 
attain  to  the  full  beauty  which  pertains  to  the  race, 
while  with  man  this  is  extremely  rare.  How  many  a 
misshapen  lout  for  one  Antinous  !  How  many  a  clumsy 
wench  for  one  Phyllis  ! 

I  greatly  fear,  dear  friend,  that  I  shall  never  embrace 
my  ideal,  and  yet  it  has  in  itself  nothing  extravagant 
or  out  of  the  common.  It  is  not  the  ideal  of  a  high- 
school  boy.  I  do  not  ask  for  ivory  globes,  alabaster 
columns,  or  nets  of  azure;  in  making  it  up  I  have 
never  made  use  of  lilies,  snow,  roses,  jet,  ebony,  coral, 
ambrosia,  pearls,  or  diamonds ;  I  let  alone  the  stars  of 
heaven  and  I  did  not  drag  in  the  sun  unseasonably. 
My  ideal  is  almost  commonplace,  so  simple  is  it,  and 
it  seems  as  though  one  provided  with  a  bag  or  two  of 
crowns  would  find  it  ready  to  his  hand  in  the  very  first 
bazaar  of  Constantinople  or  Smyrna.  Probably  it  would 
cost  me  less  than  a  thoroughbred  horse  or  dog,  and  to 
think  that  I  cannot  manage  to  secure  it !  For  I  shall 
not  secure  it,  I  feel  it.  It  is  enough  to  make  one 
swear,  and  I  get  into  the  wildest  of  rages. 

As  for  you,  you  are  not  as  crazy  as  I  am ;  you  are 
happy  ;  you  let  yourself  drift  into  your  life  without  tak- 

139 


•JU  <*»  «JU  *X«  •&*  Jt»  JL»  *L*  **-»  •&*  «i*  •■•«£»  «4©  •#•  •*%  •*•  •*•  «A»  #JU  •*•  •£•  «JU  mU 

»o*   ww«     «T#    «r*    ««a     ««w     em     •*•     «*w     •»•     •»»    ••*  •*•   «•"•   •»*»   •**•    •*<•  ***   «nr»    «nr*   «*«    «^»    «w  *«v 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

ing  the  trouble  to  mould  it,  and  you  took  things  as  they 
came.  You  did  not  look  for  happiness,  and  it  sought 
you  out.  You  love  and  are  loved.  I  do  not  envy 
you,  —  do  not  think  that,  —  but  I  do  feel  less  joyous 
than  I  ought  to  be  when  I  reflect  on  your  happiness, 
and  I  remark  with  a  sigh  that  I  would  fain  enjoy  a 
similar  one. 

It  may  be  that  happiness  brushed  by  me,  and  that, 
blind  fool  that  I  am,  I  did  not  see  it ;  it  may  be  that 
the  voice  spoke  in  my  ear,  and  that  the  noise  of  the 
tempests  within  me  drowned  it.  It  may  be  that  I  have 
been  secretly  loved  by  some  humble  heart  which  I 
have  failed  to  appreciate,  which  I  have  broken ;  that 
I  have  myself  been  some  one's  ideal,  the  loved  star  of 
some  suffering  soul,  a  dream  of  the  night,  a  thought  of 
the  day.  Had  I  cast  a  glance  at  my  feet,  I  might  per- 
chance have  seen  some  fair  Magdalen  with  her  box  of 
perfume  and  her  hair  cast  to  the  winds.  I  went  rais- 
ing my  hands  to  heaven,  seeking  to  pluck  the  stars 
that  escaped  me,  and  disdainful  of  the  modest  daisy 
that  opened  its  golden  heart  in  the  dewy  grass. 

I  have  made  a  serious  blunder.  I  have  asked  of 
Love  something  else  than  love,  something  it  could  not 
give.      I  forgot  that  Love  is  nude,  and  failed  to  grasp 

140 


^4*  4*4*  4*  4*  4*»|*  4*  4*4*  4*4. 4*^4*  4. 4. 4.  •*•**•  J.  J.4. 

#»\#   •<«•    trr»    •/*•    •*•     «ra    am*     *^     «rr»     **»    m     •*•   «<r*    •■"•  •»  »*•    wm    m»    •*•    w<»    •*•    WV»    «vw  «m 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

the  meaning  of  that  splendid  symbol.  I  asked  of  it 
brocade  dresses,  feathers,  diamonds,  a  sublime  mind, 
science,  poetry,  beauty,  youth,  supreme  power — all 
that  it  has  not.  Love  can  offer  but  itself,  and  he  who 
would  draw  aught  else  from  it  is  not  worthy  of  being 
loved. 

And  no  doubt  I  was  in  too  great  a  hurry;  my  time 
has  not  come.  God,  who  gave  me  life,  will  not 
recall  it  before  I  have  lived.  What  is  the  use  of  giv- 
ing a  stringless  lyre  to  the  poet,  a  loveless  life  to  the 
man  ?  God  does  not  do  such  illogical  things,  and  He 
will  no  doubt,  at  the  right  time,  put  in  my  way  her  I 
am  to  love  and  by  whom  I  am  to  be  loved.  But  why 
did  love  come  to  me  before  the  mistress  ?  Why  should 
I  thirst  and  have  no  spring  to  slake  my  thirst ;  or  else, 
why  can  I  not,  like  the  birds  of  the  desert,  fly  to  the 
water  springs  ?  To  me  the  world  is  a  Sahara  void  of 
wells  and  date-palms.  There  is  not  in  my  life  one 
shaded  place  where  I  can  take  shelter  from  the  sun. 
I  experience  all  the  ardours  of  passion  without  its  ecsta- 
sies and  ineffable  delights ;  I  know  its  torments,  its 
pleasures  I  ignore.  I  am  jealous  of  the  non-existent ; 
I  am  troubled  by  the  shadow  of  a  shadow ;  I  sigh  I 
know  not  for  what ;   I  have  sleepless  nights  which  no 


: 


141 


•1*  ♦*»  *JU  r**  Jt»  #Jt»  JL»  cJ/v  «iU  «JL«  JU  •&»#*»  «A*  •*»  »1*  #*o  •I*  «t»  •*•  •£•  #*♦  •*»  eS* 

•»*   fc"V>     *•*>•    •»<•     vn     «r»    «rtw     «T»     <rf»     «T*    *r»    •»•   *T*    •*•   *»•   v5»    •»*•  VC#   •-?»    «r»w   *T»    *T*    *T*  vr* 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

fair  apparition  lightens ;  I  shed  tears  that  fall  to  earth 
unkissed  away ;  I  throw  to  the  winds  kisses  that  are 
not  returned  ;  I  wear  out  mine  eyes  in  trying  to  per- 
ceive afar  a  dim  and  deceiving  form ;  I  wait  for  what 
will  not  come,  and  anxiously  count  the  hours  as  if  I 
had  a  tryst  to  keep. 

Wherever  thou  art,  angel  or  demon,  maid  or  courte- 
san, peasant  or  princess,  whether  thou  comest  from 
the  North  or  the  South,  thou  whom  I  know  not 
and  whom  I  love,  do  not  keep  me  waiting  longer,  or 
the  fire  will  consume  the  altar,  and  in  the  place  of 
my  heart  thou  shalt  find  but  a  heap  of  ashes  grown 
cold.  Descend  from  the  sphere  where  thou  art ;  leave 
the  crystal  skies,  O  Spirit  of  Consolation,  and  with  thy 
mighty  wings  overshadow  my  soul.  Come,  come, 
thou  whom  I  shall  love,  and  let  my  arms,  so  long  out- 
stretched, at  last  close  around  thee !  Golden  gates  of 
her  palace,  roll  back  on  your  hinges ;  humble  latch 
of  her  cabin-door,  be  lifted  up  ;  separate,  ye  branches  of 
the  trees,  ye  brambles  of  the  roads  •>  be  broken,  spells 
of  the  turrets,  charms  of  wizards  ;  ye  serried  crowds, 
open  up  and  let  her  pass  ! 

If  you  come  too  late,  ideal   mine,   I   shall  have   no  I 
more  strength  to  love  you ;   my  soul  is  like  a  dovecote 

142 


•A*  #i%  #1*  JU  JU  JU  JU  #4*  •!*•!*  JU#A»#4»»|«JU»i»#|»»i»»|»#i«#|»«l««l«»l« 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

full  of  doves  —  a  desire  flies  away  from  it  every  hour 
of  the  day  -9  the  doves  return  to  the  cote,  but  desires 
never  return  to  the  heart.  The  azure  vault  of  heaven  is 
whitened  by  their  innumerable  flocks  j  they  go  through 
space  from  world  to  world,  from  heaven  to  heaven, 
seeking  some  love  where  they  can  rest  for  the  night. 
Hasten,  then,  O  my  dream,  or  you  will  find  in  the 
empty  nest  but  the  broken  shells  of  birds  that  have 
flown. 

You  are  the  only  one,  dear  friend  and  companion  of 
my  childhood,  to  whom  I  can  say  such  things.  Write  to 
me  ;  tell  me  you  are  sorry  for  me,  that  you  do  not  think 
me  hypochondriacal;  console  me,  for  never  did  I  stand 
in  greater  need  of  it.  Happy  they  who  have  a  passion 
they  can  satisfy  !  No  bottle  is  cruel  to  the  drunkard ; 
he  staggers  from  the  tavern  to  the  gutter,  and  is  happier 
on  his  filth  heap  than  a  king  on  his  throne.  The 
voluptuary  seeks  facile  loves  or  shameless  excitements 
in  the  arms  of  courtesans  -,  a  painted  cheek,  a  short 
skirt,  an  immodest  bosom,  a  vile  phrase,  make  him 
happy ;  his  eye  pales,  his  lip  is  wet,  he  reaches  the 
highest  degree  of  his  form  of  happiness,  he  enjoys  the 
ecstasy  of  his  coarse  voluptuousness.  The  gamester 
needs  but  the  green  cloth  and  a  worn  and  greasy  paclc 

H3 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 


of  cards  to  experience  the  keen  anguish,  the  nervous 
spasms  and  the  devilish  delights  of  his  horrible  passion. 
These  people  can  satiate  or  distract  themselves  —  I 
cannot. 

This  feeling  has  so  thoroughly  laid  hold  of  me  that 
I  have  got  to  the  point  of  almost  not  caring  for  art  and 
finding  no  charm  in  poetry.  What  once  delighted  me 
now  fails  to  impress  me  in  the  least. 

I  begin  to  believe  I  am  wrong.  I  ask  more  of 
nature  and  society  than  they  can  give.  What  I  am 
looking  for  does  not  exist,  and  I  ought  not  to  complain 
at  not  finding  it.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the  woman 
we  love  is  not  to  be  found  in  human  shape,  how  comes 
it  that  we  love  her  and  not  another,  seeing  that  we  are 
men  and  that  our  instinct  ought  irresistibly  to  lead  us 
to  love  the  other  ?  Whence  came  to  us  the  idea  of 
this  imaginary  woman  ?  Out  of  what  clay  have  we 
moulded  that  invisible  statue  ?  Where  did  we  find 
the  feathers  wherewith  we  have  clothed  our  chimera  ? 
What  mystic  bird  laid  in  some  obscure  corner  of  our! 
soul  the  unperceived  egg  whence  sprang  our  dream  ? 
Who  is  she,  that  abstract  beauty,  which  we  feel  but 
cannot  define  ?  Why,  in  presence  of  a  woman  often 
charming,  do  we   sometimes   say  she   is  beautiful,  al- 

144 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

though  we  think  her  very  ugly  ?  Where  is  the  ideal 
model,  type,  pattern  which  we  use  as  a  standard  of  com- 
parison ?  For  beauty  is  not  an  absolute  idea,  and  con- 
trast alone  enables  us  to  appreciate  it.  Was  it  in  heaven 
that  we  beheld  it,  in  a  star,  at  a  ball,  under  a  mother's 
wing,  like  the  sweet  bud  by  the  side  of  the  full-blown 
rose  ?  Was  it  in  Italy  or  Spain,  here  or  yonder,  yes- 
terday or  long  ago  ?  Was  it  the  adored  courtesan,  the 
popular  singer,  the  prince's  daughter  ?  Was  it  a  proud 
and  noble  head  bending  under  the  heavy  diadem  of 
pearls  and  rubies,  or  the  young  childish  face  showing 
between  the  nasturtiums  and  the  morning  glories  at  the 
window  ?  To  what  school  belonged  the  picture  in 
which  that  beauty  shone  luminous  out  of  the  dark 
shadows  ?  Did  Raphael  trace  that  outline  which  de- 
lights you  ?  Did  Cleomenes  polish  the  statue  you  adore  ? 
Is  it  a  Madonna  or  a  Diana  you  are  in  love  with  ?  Is 
your  ideal  angel,  sylph,  or  woman  ?  Alas  !  it  is  some- 
thing of  all  these,  but  it  is  none  of  these. 

To  Rubens  belong  that  transparent  tone,  that  charm- 
ing, brilliant  bloom,  that  flesh  wherein  course  blood  and 
life,  that  glorious  fair  hair  that  falls  like  a  mantle  of 
gold,  the  sparkling  laughter,  the  love-provoking  dimples, 
the  strength  and  suppleness,  the  satin  sheen,  the  well- 

vol.  i  —  10  145 


4;  4;  4;  4;  4*  4,  4, 4, 4, 4, 4;  4*  4*  4*  4*  4*  4*  4;  4*  4*  4*  4?  4j4j 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

filled  lines,  the  plump  arms,  the  firm  and  polished  back, 
the  splendid  health.  Raphael  alone  can  have  coloured 
with  pale  amber  these  most  chaste  lineaments,  and  none 
other  but  he  curved  these  long,  delicate,  dark  brows, 
and  drew  the  lashes  of  these  eyes  so  modestly  cast 
down.  Think  you  Allegri  has  had  naught  to  do  with 
your  ideal  ?  It  is  from  him  that  the  lady  of  your 
thoughts  has  filched  that  dead  but  warm  pallor  that 
transports  you.  She  gazed  long  at  his  pictures  in 
order  to  discover  the  secret  of  that  ever  radiant,  angelic 
smile ;  the  oval  of  her  face,  she  has  modelled  it  from 
the  oval  of  a  nymph  or  a  saint.  That  voluptuously 
sweeping  line  of  the  hip  comes  from  the  sleeping  Anti- 
ope.  The  hands,  plump  and  delicate,  might  be  claimed 
by  Danae  or  Magdalen.  Dusty  antiquity  itself  has 
furnished  many  of  the  elements  that  compose  your 
youthful  chimera.  The  strong  and  supple  waist  you 
passionately  clasp  in  your  arms  was  carved  by  Praxite- 
les. Yonder  goddess  purposely  let  the  tips  of  her 
lovely  foot  emerge  from  the  ashes  of  Herculaneum 
that  your  idol  might  not  limp.  Nature,  too,  has  con- 
tributed her  share.  Here  and  there  you  have  seen, 
through  the  prism  of  desire,  an  ivory  brow  pressed 
against  a  pane,  lips  smiling  behind  a  fan.     The   hand 

146 


•i««i»*JU  #JU  JU  Jl%  Jt«  *ju  r|*  •£»  #l»*|»*4**i» •!••*•  •!» •!••£'» *l° *4»  #JU  •>£»•£• 

«v»  •*•    «f>#    vr+    «M    •*•    **•    •*»     tffW    *T*    *f»    *»•  «*•  •*»>»  *r*  •*>•   vrw  v»\#  *t»  «f«  *r»    **•    vr*  «£• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

told  you  of  the  shapely  arm  ;  the  rounded  ankle  of  the 
polished  knee.  What  you  could  see  was  perfection ; 
you  took  for  granted  that  the  rest  resembled  what  you 
saw,  and  you  completed  it  with  bits  of  other  beauties 
snatched  elsewhere.  Ideal  beauty,  as  realised  by  -paint- 
ers, was  yet  insufficient,  and  you  asked  of  the  poets 
more  graceful  curves,  more  ethereal  forms,  diviner 
charms,  more  exquisite  refinement.  You  prayed  them 
to  bestow  on  your  phantom  breath  and  speech,  the 
fulness  of  their  love,  of  their  fancy,  of  their  joy  and 
sadness,  of  their  melancholy  and  morbidczza,  of  their 
memories  and  their  hopes,  of  their  knowledge  and  their 
passion,  of  their  mind  and  their  heart.  All  this  you 
took  from  them,  and  to  it  added,  to  fill  up  the  impossi- 
ble, your  own  passion,  mind,  fancy,  and  thought.  The 
star  lent  its  beams,  the  flower  its  scent,  the  palette  its 
colours,  the  poet  harmony,  the  marble  form,  and  you 
desire. 

How  is  it  possible  for  a  woman,  a  real  woman,  who 
eats,  drinks,  rises  in  the  morning,  goes  to  bed  at  night, 
adorable  and  gracious  though  she  may  be,  to  stand  a 
comparison  with  such  a  creature  ?  It  is  folly  to  expect 
that  she  should,  and  yet  one  does  expect  it  and  one  hunts 
for  her.      Oh,  strange  blindness  !      How  sublime,  or  ab- 

x47 


•ju  #iu  «4*  »i*  #JU  •£»  «4»  «lr»  •l^#i*^«|^#t»^*A»»A»«l»«l»»i»*A»#§«  •*»  •!*•!• 
MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 


surd  !  I  pity  and  admire  those  who  pursue  their  dream 
through  all  reality,  and  who  die  happy  if  once  they 
have  kissed  their  chimera's  lips.  But  what  a  dreadful 
fate  is  that  of  the  Columbus  who  has  failed  to  discover 
his  New  World,  of  the  lover  who  has  not  met  his 
mistress  ! 

Were  I  a  poet,  I  should  sing  —  and  a  noble  task  it 
would  be  —  those  who  have  failed  in  life,  whose  bolts  have 
not  hit  the  mark,  who  died  with  the  word  untold,  the 
hand  not  clasped  that  was  meant  for  them  ;  all  that  has 
missed  its  aim  and  passed  away  unperceived  :  the  smoth 
ered  fire,  the  mute,  inglorious  genius,  the  unknown  pearl 
within  the  ocean's  depths;  all  that  has  loved  unloved  in 
return,  all  that  has  suffered  and  been  unpitied. 

Plato  was  right  indeed  when  he  banished  you  from 
his  republic,  O  poets  !  for  ye  have  wrought  us  harm 
infinite.  Our  absinthe  has  been  made  more  bitter  be- 
cause of  your  ambrosia  ;  the  vast  horizons  you  have  un- 
rolled before  us  have  made  our  life  but  more  waste 
and  barren ;  your  dreams  have  made  us  fight  our 
reality  fiercely,  and  in  the  struggle  our  heart  has  been 
trampled  and  crushed  by  that  great  athlete. 

Like  Adam  we  have  sat  ourselves  down  at  the  foot 

I 
of  the  walls  of  the  Earthly  Paradise,  on  the  steps  of 

148 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

the  stairs  that  lead  to  the  world  you  have  created  ;  we 
bave  seen  through  the  rifts  of  the  gate  the  flash  of  a 
light  brighter  than  that  of  the  sun ;  we  have  heard  the 
raint  scattered  notes  of  a  heavenly  harmony.  When- 
ever one  of  the  elect  enters  or  comes  out  in  a  flood 
}f  splendour,  we  crane  forward  to  catch  a  glimpse 
Df  something  through  the  open  leaf.  It  is  a  fairy 
architecture  that  has  no  equal  but  in  Arabian  fairy 
:ales.  Columns  innumerable,  arches  rising  on  arches, 
pillars  twisted  into  spirals,  wondrously  carved  foliage, 
Dpenwork  trefoils,  porphyry,  jasper,  lapis  lazuli,  and 
nore  !  —  transparence  and  dazzling  reflections,  a  pro- 
rusion  of  strange  gems,  sardonyx,  chrysoprase,  aqua- 
marine, iridescent  opals,  azerodrach ;  flashings  of 
:rystals,  flames  that  make  the  stars  grow  pale,  a  lum- 
nous  haze  full  of  sound  and  dizziness  —  Assyrian 
uxury. 

The  leaf  of  the  door  closes  ;  you  see  nothing  more, 
md  your  eyes  turn,  full  of  burning  tears,  to  this  poor, 
)ale,  fleshless  earth,  to  the  ruined  hovels,  the  ragged 
)eople,  to  your  own  soul,  —  that  barren  rock  on  which 
lothing  grows,  —  all  the  wretchedness  and  all  the 
lorrows  of  reality.  Ah  !  if  only  we  could  fly  thither  ; 
f  only  the    steps    of  those    stairs    did    not    burn  our 

149 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

feet !      But,  alas  !  the  angels  done  can  climb  Jacob's 
ladder  ! 

What  a  lot  is  that  of  the  poor  man  at  the  gate  of 
the  rich  !  What  hideous  irony  is  a  palace  opposite  a 
hut,  the  ideal  opposed  to  the  real,  poetry  contrasted 
with  prose  !  What  bitter  hatred  must  fill  the  heart  of 
the  wretched  !  What  gnashings  of  teeth  must  sound  at 
night  on  their  miserable  couch  while  the  breeze  carries 
to  them  the  sound  of  the  theorbo  and  the  lute  !  Why 
have  you  lied  unto  us,  poets,  painters,  sculptors,  com- 
posers ?  Ye  poets,  why  did  you  tell  us  your  dreams  ? 
Ye  painters,  why  did  you  preserve  on  the  canvas  that 
elusive  phantom  that  rose  and  fell  from  your  heart 
to  your  head  with  the  throbbings  of  your  veins,  and 
why  did  you  tell  us,  "  This  is  a  woman  "  ?  Wherefore, 
O  sculptors,  did  you  raise  the  marble  from  Carrara's 
depths  and  make  it  express  forever  and  in  the  sight 
of  all,  your  lightest  and  deepest  desire?  And  you 
composers,  why  did  you  note  the  song  of  the  stars 
and  the  song  of  the  flowers  In  the  shadow  of  night 
and  note  it  down  ?  Why  have  you  written  such 
sweet  songs  that  the  sweetest  voice  which  whispers 
to  us,  "  I  love  you,"  seems  harsh  as  rasp  of  saw  or 
croak  of  raven  ?      Be  ye  accursed,  ye  impostors  i  and 

150 


•|*«l*«sl«  *l*.  •!-.  JU  JU  #1*  #4*  «JU  «l^«4»4U^i*«A»»l»»A»*i»*I**t'»«l*  •!*  •!••!« 

•r*   •*#    «w    *T»     «^*     vt*    .■  ^     a*.     «£•     •)»    m    «M  aft*   «T»  «*•  «•»    ot.   *f»    ^imm    «N    WW  *~ 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

may  the  fire  of  heaven  burn  and  destroy  every  paint- 
ing and  poem,  every  statue,  and  every  composition. 
Ouf!  that  tirade  is  marvellous  long  and  somewhat 
out  of  the  epistolary  style.      What  a  screed  ! 

I  have  largely  indulged  in  lyrical  rhapsody,  most 
dear  friend,  and  I  have  been  imitating  Pindar  at 
prodigious  length.  All  this  is  far  removed  from  our 
subject,  which  is,  if  I  remember  rightly,  the  glorious 
and  triumphant  story  of  the  knight  Albert  in  pursuit 
of  Darai'da,  the  most  beautiful  princess  in  the  world, 
as  our  old  romances  have  it.  But  the  fact  is,  there 
is  so  little  in  the  story  itself  that  I  am  compelled  to 
have  recourse  to  reflections  and  digressions.  I  hope 
it  will  not  always  be  so,  and  that  before  long  the 
romance  of  my  life  will  be  more  complex  and  involved 
than  a  Spanish  imbroglio. 

After  wandering  through  street  after  street,  I  re- 
solved to  call  on  a  friend  of  mine  who  was  to  present 
me  in  a  house  where,  according  to  him,  one  met  a 
host  of  lovely  women,  a  collection  of  ideals,  become 
real  enough  to  satisfy  a  score  of  poets.  All  tastes  can 
be  suited ;  there  are  aristocratic  beauties  with  eagle 
glance,  sea-green  eyes,  Greek  noses,  proudly  turned 
chins,  queenly  hands,  and  the  walk  of  a  goddess  ;    silver 

151 


*!*  *lr»  *I*  «4*  •*»  *&•  ♦I*  *4"  *jk  <^l**i**A»*l»»l»«4,»«4*«4»*i»*l*»l»«l*  •!***•*!« 

ww   *fwe    «rv<*    wvw    wfw     •»*•    •£■     «v»     w5*     «*•    <ww    «*»  era   «r»  ••*>•  •>*•    «^»   e/r«   «^c   •&»  «vw    «*w    »-5»»  *?» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

lilies  on  a  golden  stem  ;  soft-coloured,  modest  violets, 
sweet-scented,  eye  moist  and  cast  down,  swan  neck, 
transparent  skin ;  arch  and  piquant  beauties  ;  affected 
beauties ;  beauties  of  every  sort ;  for  that  house  is  a 
veritable  seraglio,  bar  the  eunuchs  and  the  kislar  aga. 
My  friend  tells  me  that  he  has  already  had  no  less  than 
five  or  six  love  affairs  there.  This  amazes  me  and  I 
greatly  fear  I  shall  not  meet  with  such  success.      De 

C insists  that  I  shall,  and  that  sooner  than  I  wish. 

He  maintains  that  I  have  but  one  defect,  which  age 
and  a  knowledge  of  the  world  will  soon  cure — it 
is  that  I  think  too  highly  of  woman  and  not  enough 
of  women.  There  may  be  some  truth  in  this.  He 
says  that  when  I  have  rid  myself  of  this  defect  I 
shall  be  perfectly  lovable.  Heaven  grant  it  !  Women 
surely  feel  that  I  despise  them,  for  a  compliment 
which  they  would  think  adorable  and  most  charming, 
coming  from  another  man,  angers  and  displeases  them, 
coming    from    me,   as    much    as    would    the   bitterest 

epigram.     This   is   probably  due   to  what  de    C 

reproaches  me  with. 

My  heart  beat  somewhat  fast  as  we  ascended  the 
stairs,  and  I  had  scarcely  mastered  my  emotion  when 
de  C ,  nudging  me,  brought  me  face  to  face  with 

152 


&:£:  dfc  &  i:  i:  4: 4:  dt  4: 4:4rdbtS?dr  db  tlrtir^r^r^?  4:  tSrdb 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

a  woman  of  thirty  or  thereabouts,  rather  handsome, 
dressed  with  quiet  luxury  and  an  extreme  affectation 
of  childish  simplicity,  which  did  not  prevent  her  having 
painted  herself  as  if  she  were  a  carriage-wheel.  She 
was  the  mistress  of  the   house. 

De  C ,  in  that  thin  and  sarcastic  voice  so  differ- 
ent from  his  habitual  one,  and  which  he  uses  in  the 
world  when  he  wants  to  charm,  said  to  her,  neither 
very  low  nor  very  loud,  and  with  many  demonstrations 
of  ironic  respect,  through  which  contempt  was  plainly 
visible, — 

u  This  is  the  young  gentleman  of  whom  I  spoke  to 
you  the  other  day  ;  a  man  of  distinguished  merit,  of 
the  best  of  families,  whom  I  think  you  will  surely 
be  pleased  to  receive.  That  is  why  I  have  taken  the 
liberty  of  presenting  him  to  you." 

"  You  did  quite  right,  sir,"  replied  the  lady,  with 
the  most  exaggerated  airs  and  graces.  Then  she 
turned  towards  me  and  looked  me  over  out  of  the 
corner  of  her  eye  like  a  skilful  expert,  in  a  way  that 
made  me  blush   to   the   ears. 

"  You  may  consider  yourself  as  invited  once  for  all, 
and  you  may  come  as  often  as  you  have  an  evening  to 
waste." 

x53 


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■*•  ■***»    *t»    vtw    «^i     *^#    *<^#     *y»     *<%*#     *V*    •*!*•    **•  •*•*•   a^v   wp  «^#   aw*   wi   w«   •'F*   •T*    •*»   *w»  «rv» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

I  bowed  rather  awkwardly,  and  stammered  a  few 
disconnected  words,  which  assuredly  did  not  give  her  a 
high  opinion  of  my  capacity.  Then  other  guests  entered 
and  relieved  me  of  the  boredom  inseparable  from  an 

introduction.       De    C -  drew    me   into   a    window 

recess  and  proceeded  to  scold  me   in  proper  fashion. 

"  What  the  devil !  You  will  compromise  me.  I 
spoke  of  you  as  a  very  phoenix  of  wit,  a  man  of  mad- 
dest imagination,  a  lyric  poet,  transcendent  and  pas- 
sionate in  the  extreme ;  and  you  stand  there  like  a  log, 
without  a  word  to  say.  What  poverty  of  resources  ! 
I  thought  you  could  talk  more  freely  ;  come,  let  your 
tongue  go ;  chatter  much,  if  not  wisely.  There  is  no 
need  of  saying  wise  and  sensible  things  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  might  prove  hurtful.  Talk,  that  is  the  main 
thing ;  talk  much,  talk  long  ;  attract  attention  to  your- 
self; cast  aside  all  fear  and  modesty ;  bear  well  in 
mind  that  every  one  here  is  a  fool,  or  almost  a  fool, 
and  do  not  forget  that  an  orator  who  desires  to  succeed 
cannot  despise  his  audience  too  much.  What  think 
you  of  the  mistress  of  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  dislike  her  excessively,  and  although  I  spoke  to 
her  for  barely  three  minutes,  I  was  as  much  bored  as 
if  I  had  been  her  husband.'' 

154 


*A*  •*•  *A«  »#,»  «4*  *4»  •4*  *~*  *4*  ***  *§•  *!*»*•  #!•  •!•  •!•  *£«  *!•  *-f-»  •!•  «>*•  *£•  **•  *f* 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

"  Ah  !  that  is  what  you  think  of  her  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Is  your  dislike  of  her  wholly  insurmountable  ? 
'T  is  a  pity.  It  would  have  been  becoming  in  you  to 
have  her,  even  but  for  a  month  ;  it  is  the  thing  to  do, 
and  a  young  man  of  the  right  sort  can  be  launched  into 
society  by  her  only." 

"  Well !  I  shall  have  her,"  said  I,  rather  ruefully, 
u  since  have  her  I  must.  But  is  it  as  indispensable  as 
you  seem  to  think  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes.  Most  indispensable,  and  I  shall  tell 
you  why.  Mme.  de  Themines  is  all  the  rage  just 
now  ;  she  indulges  in  all  the  follies  of  the  day  to  a 
marked  degree;  she  sometimes  indulges  in  to-morrow's 
follies,  but  never  in  yesterday's ;  she  is  thoroughly  up 
to  date.  What  she  wears  will  be  worn,  and  she  never 
wears  what  has  been  worn.  Besides,  she  is  rich,  and 
she  dresses  in  the  best  style.  She  is  not  witty,  but  she 
knows  thoroughly  the  jargon  of  society  ;  she  takes  very 
strong  fancies,  but  scarcely  knows  what  deep  attach- 
ment is.  You  may  strike  her  fancy,  but  you  will  not 
touch  her  feelings.  She  is  cold-hearted  and  lasciviously 
minded.  If  she  has  a  soul,  which  is  doubtful,  it  is  of 
the   blackest ;    she    is    capable   of   any    wickedness  or 

155 


*!r*  •#••&•  •!•  #4*  *s*  •*•  »4*  •£*  •A*  *4»*A»  #i**i«  #JU«JU  »§*  *jU  #4-*  JU  •*•  **•**•**• 

*«\»   •"»    *¥»    ***     rr#     Ml    km     «r*     ««w     «SS»     *•»    **•  Vf«   •»•   •>*•   •"«•    ««*»   ***   •*•   •*•   •«•    **•    **»  **» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

baseness,  but  she  is  very  clever,  and  preserves  appear- 
ances just  so  far  as  is  necessary  to  prevent  anything 
being  proved  against  her.  For  instance,  she  will  readily 
lie  with  a  man,  but  will  not  write  him  the  briefest 
note.  So  her  most  intimate  female  enemies  can  find 
nothing  to  say  against  her,  save  that  she  rouges  too 
high,  and  that  certain  parts  of  her  person  are  not,  in 
fact,  as  rounded  as  they  seem  to  be,  —  which  is  not 
true." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  ?  " 

"That's  a  funny  question.  As  one  knows  that 
kind  of  thing,  —  by  finding  out  for  myself." 

"  So  you  have  had  Mme.  de  Themines  also  ? " 

"  Certainly.  Why  should  I  not  have  had  her  ?  It 
would  have  been  most  improper  in  me  not  to  have 
her.  She  has  done  me  great  services,  and  I  am  very 
grateful  to   her." 

u  I  do  not  quite  understand  what  kind  of  services 
she  can   have  done  you  —  " 

"  Are   you    really    a    fool  ?  "    then   said  de  C- , 

looking  at  me  most  quizzically.  "  Upon  my  word,  I 
begin  to  think  so.  Must  I  enter  into  details  ?  A4me. 
de  Themines  has  the  well-deserved  reputation  of  pos- 
sessing   special    knowledge  of  certain    matters,  and   a 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

young  man  whom  she  has  taken  and  kept  for  a  time 
may  boldly  present  himself  everywhere,  and  he  may  be 
sure  he  will  not  be  long  without  an  affair ;  two  affairs, 
indeed,  rather  than  one  only.  Besides  this  ineffable 
advantage,  there  is  another  equally  important,  and  that 
is  that  as  soon  as  the  ladies  in  that  company  see  you 
have  become  Mme.  de  Themines'  official  lover,  then, 
even  if  they  care  not  a  straw  for  you,  they  will  consider 
it  a  duty  and  a  pleasure  to  carry  you  off  from  a  woman 
so  much  the  fashion  as  she  is,  and  instead  of  the  ad- 
vances and  attentions  you  would  have  to  indulge  in, 
you  will  only  have  the  difficulty  of  making  a  choice, 
and  you  will  of  necessity  become  the  aim  of  all  imag- 
inable lures  and  baits. 

u  However,  if  she  is  too  repugnant  to  you,  do  not 
take  her.  You  are  not  actually  obliged  to  have  her, 
although  it  would  be  polite  and  proper  for  you  to  do  so. 
But  choose  speedily,  and  lay  siege  to  one  who  most 
pleases  you,  or  seems  most  likely  to  surrender  easily  ; 
for  delay  will  cost  you  the  benefit  of  novelty,  and  the 
advantage  derived  from  it  during  a  few  days  over  all 
the  men  who  are  here.  None  of  these  ladies  believe 
in  love  affairs  which  spring  from  intimacy,  and  grow 
slowly  under  the  influence  of  silence  and  respect  m>  they 

157 


•J/%  *§>•  *,£ ■»  »!/•  «JU  •&•  »l^  *JU  •»*  *!<•  *&•  •&•#£•  el*  •*»  #1*  <»X»  #1*  •#•  «#•  •£•  »|*  «*•  «#» 

•w»  •<»>•    •<*•    %T«    wv*     WtU    am     *?»     *v»    *?»    •*»    *«*  •*•  •*»  •*•  •"•   •*•  •*•  •**  ***•  "^    •*»   ■*•  •*• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

prefer  the  sudden  passion  and  occult  sympathy,  —  a 
very  clever  invention  which  saves  the  boredom  of  re- 
sistance, and  all  the  delays  and  repetitions  which  senti- 
ment mingles  with  the  romance  of  love,  and  which 
merely  postpone  its  outcome.  These  ladies  value  their 
time  highly,  and  it  is  apparently  so  precious  to  them 
that  they  would  forever  regret  not  having  made  use  of 
every  minute.  It  is  impossible  to  praise  too  much 
their  desire  to  oblige  mankind ;  they  love  their  neigh- 
bour as  themselves,  a  most  evangelical  and  meritorious 
action.  They  are  exceedingly  charitable,  and  nothing 
in  the  world  would  induce  them  to  let  a  man  die  of 
despair. 

"  Some  three  or  four  of  them  must  already  be  smitten 
with  you,  and,  as  a  friend,  I  should  advise  you  to  urge 
your  suit  vigorously  in  that  direction,  rather  than  to 
fool  away  your  time  talking  with  me  in  the  embrasure 
of  a  window,  —  which  is  not  the  way  to  get  on/' 

"  But,  my  dear  de   C ,  I  am   quite  a  novice  in 

such  matters.  I  have  not  that  knowledge  of  the  world 
which  enables  one  to  distinguish  at  a  glance  a  woman 
who  is  smitten  from  one  who  is  not,  and  unless  you 
aid  me  with  your  experience,  I  shall  be  apt  to  make 
startling  mistakes." 

^8 


»ti  *!-*  »&%  e>G/»  «1*  •*•  Jt»  rf/»  •#•  •£»  *A*  «J-»  ♦.!-»  «&»  ***  »1»  eli  «£«  «J*  r§*  «&«  •&»*§*«!« 

•*•  •»•*    arc    •**    **»     *»•    am     •▼•     wf*     •*•    «T»    •*•  »T»   •»?<•  •*•  •«•   •*•  */**   •*>•  «*•   «*»    «a»    •»<  «3* 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

u  Upon  my  word,  you  are  uncommonly  green,  and  I 
did  not  think  it  was  possible  to  be  pastoral  and  bucolic 
to  such  a  degree  nowadays.  What  the  devil  do  you  do 
with  those  great  black  eyes  of  yours,  then,  which,  did 
you  but  know  how  to  use  them,  would  be  irresistible  ? 
Just  look  yonder,  in  that  corner  near  the  mantelpiece, 
at  that  little  lady  in  pink  who  is  playing  with  her  fan. 
She  has  been  observing  you  through  her  glasses  for  the 
past  fifteen  minutes  with  the  most  significant  atten- 
tion and  assiduity.  She  has  not  her  match  in  being 
supremely  indecent  and  nobly  shameless.  Women 
dislike  her  very  much,  for  they  despair  of  ever  attaining 
to  the  same  height  of  immodesty  ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  men  are  very  fond  of  her,  and  think  her  as 
piquant  as  a  courtesan.  It  is  true  that  she  is  charm- 
ingly depraved,  witty,  spirited,  and  capricious.  She  is 
an  excellent  mistress  for  a  young  man  with  prejudices. 
In  a  week  she  frees  a  conscience  of  all  scruples  and 
corrupts  the  heart  so  that  you  never  will  be  ridicu- 
lous or  given  to  elegy.  She  is  inexpressibly  posi- 
tivist  in  all  things  ;  she  goes  to  the  root  of  a  matter 
with  a  swiftness  and  accuracy  that  are  amazing. 
She  is  the  incarnation  of  algebra,  —  exactly  what 
is  needed  for  a  dreamer  and  an  enthusiast.     She  will 

*59 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

soon  cure  you  of  your  vague  idealism,  and  thus  do 
you  a  great  service.  Besides,  she  will  do  it  with  the 
greatest  pleasure,  for  she  instinctively  loves  to  disen- 
chant poets." 

My  curiosity  being  awakened  by  de  C 's  descrip- 
tion, I  emerged  from  my  retreat,  and  making  my  way 
through  the  groups,  I  approached  the  lady  and  looked 
at  her  very  attentively.  She  was  about  twenty-five  or 
twenty-six  ;  her  figure  was  small  but  well  proportioned, 
though  somewhat  plump ;  her  arm  was  white  and  dim- 
pled, her  hand  rather  fine,  her  foot  pretty  and  indeed 
rather  small,  her  shoulders  rounded  and  shining,  her 
bosom  not  very  full,  but  conveying  a  very  favourable 
idea  of  the  unseen  portions.  Her  hair  was  very  glossy 
and  of  a  blue-black  like  the  wings  of  the  jay  ;  the 
corner  of  the  eye  slanting  somewhat  upwards,  the  nose 
thin,  and  the  nostrils  well  open  ;  moist,  sensuous  lips, 
a  slight  depression  in  the  lower  one,  and  almost  imper- 
ceptible down  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth.  And  withal 
vivacity,  animation,  health,  strength,  and  an  indefinable 
expression  of  sensuality,  cleverly  tempered  by  coquetry 
and  artifice  that  combined  to  form  a  most  desirable 
person,  and  more  than  justified  the  very  lively  desires 
she  had   inspired  and   still   excited. 

160 


•£*•!«  *t«  *4*  *k«  *§»  •§•  »tr»  *s»  *■!•  •**•»■»  *§•«*•  *4:«ju*ju  •A»*4«  •=••£•  •=*  •«■•«&> 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

I  wanted  her,  but  I  understood,  nevertheless,  that, 
however  charming  she  might  be,  she  was  not  the 
woman  who  would  satisfy  my  longing  and  make  me 
say,  u  At  last  I  have  a  mistress  !  " 

I   returned  to  de  C and  said  to  him  :  "  I  rather 

like  the  lady,  and  I  may  come  to  terms  with  her.  But 
before  saying  anything  definite  and  binding,  I  wish  you 
would  be  good  enough  to  show  me  the  indulgent 
beauties  who  have  been  good  enough  to  be  struck  with 
me,  so  that  I  may  choose.  And  you  will  oblige  me 
further,  since  you  are  acting  as  my  guide  here,  if  you 
will  say  a  few  words  about  each  and  enumerate  her 
defects  and  qualities  ;  tell  me  how  I  am  to  approach 
them,  and  what  tone  I  should  adopt  so  as  not  to  seem 
too  countryfied  or  literary." 

u  Very   willingly,"   said   de   C .      "  Do  you   see 

that  fair  and  melancholy  swan-like  creature  who  bends 
her  neck  so  harmoniously,  and  moves  her  sleeves  like- 
wings  ?  She  is  modesty  itself,  the  most  chaste  and 
maidenly  creature  in  the  world  ;  snow-white  brow, 
heart  of  ice,  glance  of  a  Madonna,  innocent  smile, 
white  dress,  and  white  soul.  She  never  wears  in  her 
hair  aught  but  orange  blossoms  or  water-lily  leaves, 
and  but  a  thread  holds  her    to   this    earth.     She    has 

VOL.1 II  161 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

never  had  an  evil  thought,  and  has  not  the  faintest  idea 
of  the  difference  between  a  man  and  a  woman.  The 
Blessed  Virgin  would  be  a  Bacchante  in  comparison 
with  her,  but  all  the  same  she  has  had  more  lovers 
than  any  woman  I  know,  and  I  have  known  many. 
Pray  examine  that  discreet  lady's  bosom  —  it  is  really 
a  masterpiece,  for  it  is  indeed  difficult  to  exhibit  as 
much  while  concealing  more  —  and  tell  me  whether, 
with  all  her  reservations  and  her  prudery,  she  is  not 
ten  times  more  indecent  than  the  worthy  lady  on  her 
left  who  simply  displays  a  couple  of  hemispheres  that, 
were  they  put  together,  would  form  a  full-sized  globe, 
or  than  the  other  on  her  right,  with  her  dress  cut  down 
to  her  stomach  and  who  is  parading  her  flat  chest 
with  delightful  intrepidity  ?  I  am  greatly  mistaken  if 
that  maidenly  creature  has  not  already  calculated  in 
her  own  mind  how  much  love  and  ardour  may  be 
inferred  from  your  pale  complexion  and  your  black 
eyes.  I  say  this,  because  she  has  not  once  looked 
our  way,  —  apparently,  at  least ;  for  she  is  so  skilful 
in  the  use  of  her  eyes,  and  she  can  look  so  cleverly 
out  of  the  corners  of  them  that  nothing  escapes  her. 
You  would  swear  she  can  see  with  the  back  of  her 
head,  for   she  knows   perfectly  well  what  is  going  on 

162 


JU  «JU  »>t%  «>!/•  »*»  Jt*  *!<-•  #&*  #A«  «JL»  #1*  «4»  rA*  «1«  •*•  •#•  #i»  #§»  •**  •*•  #4*  #**  •*♦  •*• 

«^s»  •»>•    «r»    **•    «tw    «*»    mm    mf»    •*#    •*■    «r»    •*•  «f»  •*»•  •*•  •*•   «*•  **•  «na  •»«•  •*»    vr«   w»  *»• 

MADEMOISELLE     DE     MAUPIN 

behind  her.  She  is  a  female  Janus.  If  you  desire  to 
succeed  with  her,  you  must  put  aside  loud  and  domi- 
neering ways  ;  speak  to  her  without  looking  at  her, 
without  a  gesture,  in  a  contrite  attitude  and  in  a  sub- 
dued and  respectful  tone.  You  may  then  say  anything 
you  please,  provided  you  veil  it  properly,  and  she  will 
permit  you  the  utmost  freedom  of  speech  to  begin 
with,  and  of  action  afterwards.  But  be  careful  to  roll 
your  eyes  tenderly  when  she  is  looking  down,  and  talk 
to  her  of  the  delights  of  platonic  love  and  the  inter- 
change of  souls  while  indulging  in  the  least  platonic 
and  the  most  .matter-of-fact  gestures.  She  is  very 
sensual  and  susceptible ;  kiss  her  as  much  as  you 
please,  but  even  when  she  is  wholly  giving  herself, 
do  not  forget  to  call  her  madam  every  minute.  She 
quarrelled  with  me  because,  being  in  bed  with  her,  I 
addressed  her  familiarly.  I  can  tell  you  that  she  is 
not  an  honest  woman  for  nothing." 

"  I  do  not  feel  much  tempted,  after  what  you  have 
told  me,  to  try  my  chances  with  her.  A  prudish  Mes- 
salina  !   it  is  a  novel  and  monstrous  combination." 

cc  A  combination  as  old  as  the  world,  my  dear  fellow  ; 
met  with  every  day,  so  common  is  it.  You  are  wrong 
not  to  settle  on  this  one.      She  has  a  great  charm  about 

163 


•J*  *?/*  *£*  v*/»  *!/•  JU  «A*  «£*  #JU  *JU  *ft»  «s»  •*•  •*»  •*•  •a*  •*»  •*•  •«•  «s*  *4«  •»•  •£•  *s* 

w*w  *m#    «is»    «n>    «t<*    **•    •**    «r»    «vU    »#■•>    •*•    #*»  *!»•  or*  •>»»  •*•  «*•  vr»  vcw  •*»  *r»    •*•   «*»*  vr» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

her  ;  one  always  feels  with  her  as  if  one  were  com- 
miting  a  mortal  sin,  and  the  least  kiss  appears  abso- 
lutely damning,  while  with  others  one  has  scarcely 
the  sensation  of  venial  sin,  and  often,  indeed,  no  sen- 
sation of  sin  at  all.  Hence  I  kept  her  as  my  mistress 
much  longer  than  any  other.  She  would  still  be  my 
mistress,  had  she  not  herself  thrown  me  over ;  she 
is  the  only  woman  who  ever  forestalled  me,  and  I 
rather  respect  her  on  that  account.  She  has  a  most 
refined  delicacy  in  her  voluptuousness,  and  the  rare 
art  of  seeming  to  yield  reluctantly  what  she  grants 
most  readily,  so  that  the  gift  of  her  favours  has  all 
the  charm  of  rape.  You  will  meet  in  society  some 
nine  or  ten  lovers  of  hers  who  will  pledge  their  honour 
that  she  is  the  most  virtuous  creature  living.  She  is 
exactly  the  opposite.  It  is  very  interesting  to  study 
that  virtue  in  bed.  Now  as  you  are  forewarned  you 
run  no  danger  and  will  not  be  fool  enough  to  fall 
really  in  love  with  her." 

"  How  old  is  this  marvellous  woman  ?  "  asked  I,  for  I 
could  not  make  it  out,  even  after  observing  her  most 
carefully. 

"  You  may  well  ask  her  age.  It  is  a  mystery  known 
to  God  alone.      Even  I,  who  pride  myself  on  telling  a 

164 


•JK  *1*  JL»  rvi*  #JU  JU  •!/•  »i/»  «ri/»  •&»  •*»  •A»«JL»  »£•  «§•  •*•  »*»  •§»  #4*  «A»  «*»  ♦**  •&«  *£« 

•in*   •£•    «M«^««S**iiUa^»a^>WfU«f««r*«V«w*«    •«»«   •*•  •*•    •»*•   •*>•   **•   •>■<•    «5W    «»•    «w  •*» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

woman's  age  within  a  minute  of  the  correct  time,  I 
have  never  been  able  to  make  out  hers.  But,  roughly 
speaking,  I  should  say  she  is  anywhere  from  eighteen 
to  thirty-six.  I  have  seen  her  in  full  dress,  in  undress, 
in  her  night-dress,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  anything  on 
that  point.  My  skill  fails  me.  She  seems  to  be  most 
likely  eighteen,  and  yet  she  cannot  be  that.  She  has 
the  outward  appearance  of  a  virgin,  and  the  soul  of  a 
prostitute,  and  it  takes  much  time  or  genius  to  become 
so  thoroughly  and  speciously  corrupt  as  she  is.  It 
takes  a  heart  of  bronze  in  a  breast  of  steel ;  she  has 
neither,  and  so  I  judge  she  is  thirty-six,  but  the  truth  is 
I  do  not  know  at  all." 

"  Has  she  no  intimate  friend  who  could  enlighten 
you  ?  " 

"  No  ;  she  came  to  this  place  two  years  ago,  from  the 
provinces  or  abroad,  I  forget  which  ;  an  admirable 
condition  if  a  woman  knows  how  to  profit  by  it.  With 
such  a  figure  as  hers,  she  may  claim  any  age  and  have 
it  reckoned  only  from  the  day  of  her  arrival  here.  " 

"  Very  pleasant  indeed,  especially  when  no  imper- 
tinent wrinkle  appears  to  give  you  the  lie,  and  Time, 
the  great  destroyer,  is  good  enough  to  lend  itself  to 
such  an  alteration  in  a  certificate  of  baptism." 


•***£»  +!U  •£•  •«•  ♦I*  ***  *&*  •§*  ***  *g*  *s*  *1*  *g*  *a*  *g*  *=*  »g*  yg*  *af  *if  *s*  •*••*• 

«r\*  t^   vr*   *w    ««w    *»•    wi    «•<•    WfU    •¥»    *f»    «v*  «**•  •**  ««<•  mw  ••*•  iw  <vr»  •*••  ««*   •*•  w«w  o5W 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

He  showed  me  several  others  who,  he  affirmed, 
would  favourably  entertain  whatever  requests  I  might 
make  of  them  and  would  treat  me  with  singular  phil- 
anthropy. But  the  lady  in  pink  at  the  corner  of  the 
mantelpiece  and  the  modest  dove  who  formed  a  con- 
trast to  her  were  incomparably  superior  to  all  the 
others,  and  if  the  two  had  not  all  the  qualities  I 
insist  upon,  they,  apparently  at  least,  enjoyed  some 
of   them. 

I  talked  with  them  the  whole  evening,  especially 
with  the  dove-like  one,  and  was  careful  to  utter  my  re- 
marks in  the  most  respectful  fashion.  Although  she 
scarcely  looked  at  me  once,  I  thought  at  times  I  saw 
her  eyes  shine  under  their  veiling  eyelashes,  and  when 
I  ventured  on  some  rather  free  gallantries  —  clothed  in 
the  most  modest  of  gauze  —  I  saw  her  skin  flush  softly 
and  slightly,  with  an  effect  not  unlike  that  produced  by 
a  rosy  liquor  poured  into  a  translucent  cup.  Her 
replies  were  usually  sober,  temperate,  but  keen  and 
barbed,  suggesting  much  more  than  they  expressed. 
And  withal  reservations,  half-spoken  thoughts,  indirect 
allusions,  each  syllable  fraught  with  meaning,  every 
silence  pregnant  with  purpose  —  nothing  could  be  more 
diplomatic    and     delightful.       Nevertheless,    though    I 

~  -       ~ 76rT 


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»«•  «m»    «f*    »r*    vr*    »••*    •»*    »»<•     t7*    •▼*    *r*    •»•  ww  *t»  w*  ••»•   •*»  vtj  «<r\.  »rw  •»»"*    •^*    *^*  **• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

enjoyed  it  at  the  time,  I  could  not  long  bear  with  that 
sort  of  conversation.  One  has  to  be  constantly  on 
guard  and  wide-awake,  and  what  I  most  prize  in  a  talk 
is  ease  and  familiarity. 

First,  we  spoke  of  music,  and  were  naturally  led  to 
talk  of  the  Opera,  then  of  women,  and  finally  of  love, 
which  is  the  subject  of  all  others  in  which  it  is  easiest 
to  pass  from  the  general  to  the  particular.  We  rivalled 
with  each  other  in  the  expression  of  lofty  sentiments  ; 
you  would  have  laughed  had  you  heard  me.  Amadis 
on  Poverty  Rock  was  but  a  passionless  wight  compared 
with  me.  We  talked  of  generosity,  self-denial,  devo- 
tion, in  a  way  that  would  have  brought  the  blush  of 
shame  to  the  cheek  of  the  late  Curtius  the  Roman. 
Honestly,  I  did  not  believe  I  was  capable  of  talking 
such  transcendental  bosh  and  bathos.  Does  it  not  strike 
you  as  most  comical,  most  buffoon  that  I  should  be  in- 
dulging in  the  most  superfine  quintessence  of  platonism  ? 
And,  by  Jove  !  you  should  have  seen  my  devout  mien, 
my  sanctimonious  and  demure  ways.  I  seemed  to  be 
perfectly  innocent  about  it,  and  any  mother  who  had 
happened  to  hear  me  talk  would  not  have  hesitated  to 
let  me  go  to  bed  with  her  daughter,  any  husband 
would  have  confided  his  wife  to  me.      It  is  the  even- 

167 


*»V»    »M»     MW     W»     on*      W5*     WM      •¥»      o5«      «£U     *5»     *»•    •»»«•    •*<•    •*»>•    *»«•    WW    vw    «o*    •*•    •*•     •<•<•    •*»   v»» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

ing  of  my  life  on  which  I  had  the  most  virtuous  air, 
and  on  which  I  was  least  virtuous.  I  thought  it  was 
a  good  deal  more  difficult  to  be  hypocritical  and  to 
say  things  you  do  not  believe.  Either  it  must  be 
quite  easy  or  I  have  a  fine  turn  for  it,  since  I  suc- 
ceeded so  well  at  the  first  attempt.  The  truth  is  that 
I  am  pretty  successful  at  times. 

As  for  the  lady  herself,  she  said  many  things  very 
cleverly  put,  which,  spite  of  the  candid  way  in  which 
she  enunciated  them,  proved  that  she  was  consum- 
mately experienced.  You  cannot  imagine  how  subtle 
were  the  distinctions  she  made.  She  would  split  a  hair 
in  three  parts  and  beat  all  angelic  and  seraphic  doctors 
with  their  own  weapons.  For  the  rest,  judging  from 
her  speech,  it  is  impossible  to  believe  that  she  has  even 
a  shadow  of  a  body.      She  is  so  immaterial,  vaporous, 

ideal  as  fairly  to  stagger  you,  and  if  de  C had  not 

warned  me  of  the  ways  of  the  creature,  I  should  have 
certainly  despaired  of  success  and  shamefacedly  kept 
away  from  her.  And  really,  when  a  woman  tells  you 
during  a  couple  of  hours,  in  the  airiest  way,  that  love 
lives  only  on  privations  and  sacrifice  and  other  pretty 
things  of  the  kind,  can  you  reasonably  hope  to  persuade 
her  one  day  to  get  in  between  a  couple  of  sheets  with 

168 


•r*»  «m»    vr*    «*•    ^g(a     «M    w*»     •*«     •"*»     •*<•     •»•    •»•  •»*•   •*<•  «^»  *r»    «,-*•   */*•    vr»    «^»    «w    «w»    «*v  •?« 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

you,  in  order  to  warm  each  other's  complexions,  and  to 
see  if  you  are  built  alike  ? 

In  a  word,  we  parted  very  good  friends  and  con- 
gratulated each  other  on  the  elevation  and  purity  of  our 
sentiments. 

You  will  readily  divine  that  my  conversation  with 
the  other  was  entirely  different.  We  laughed  as  much 
as  we  talked.  We  made  fun,  and  very  wittily,  of  every 
woman  present,  or  rather  I  ought  to  say  she  made  fun, 
as  a  man  can  never  do  that  well  of  a  woman.  For 
my  part,  I  listened  and  approved,  for  it  is  impossible  to 
sketch  more  cleverly  and  to  paint  more  brilliantly  ;  it 
was  the  most  amusing  collection  of  caricatures  I  have 
ever  seen.  Through  the  exaggeration  one  felt  the  un- 
derlying truth.      De   C was  right  ;    that  woman's 

mission  is  to  disenchant  poets.  She  bears  about  with 
her  a  prosaic  atmosphere  in  which  no  poetic  idea  can 
live.  She  is  charmingly  and  sparklingly  witty,  and  yet, 
in  her  society,  vulgar  and  ignoble  thoughts  alone  occur 
to  me.  While  speaking  to  her  I  felt  the  maddest  de- 
sire to  do  things  incongruous  and  impossible  to  do 
where  we  were,  such  as  to  call  for  wine,  get  drunk, 
plant  her  on  my  knee,  kiss  her  bosom,  pull  up  her 
petticoats  and  see  if  she  wore  her  garter  above  or  below 

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•J/*  *f/»  »t/»  «J/»  «gL*  «4U  •!/•  #1*  #Ir*  CsE*  *i*  •«*  »**  *f*  «4U  #*»  «4U  ef*  *J«  #1*  #£«  •§••!«•£« 
w*  «/tv»    m    *m    v?s»    vrw    «r<*    «r»    «*•    •*•   *r«    ««f»  *#*  «t*  •»»«•  «^»   •*•  vr*  «5\*  •*•  w»    vr#   vrw  vr+ 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

the  knee,  to  sing  an  obscene  refrain,  smoke  a  pipe, 
smash  windows,  and  I  know  not  what  else.  The  ani- 
mal, the  brute  in  me  was  aroused ;  I  would  have  un- 
hesitatingly spat  on  Homer's  Iliad  and  knelt  to  a  ham. 
I  now  perfectly  understand  the  allegory  of  Ulysses' 
companions  turned  into  swine  by  Circe.  She  was 
probably  a  trollop,  like  my  little  lady  in   pink. 

I  am  ashamed  to  say  it,  but  I  positively  enjoyed  my 
descent  into  beastliness  ;  I  not  only  did  not  struggle 
against  it,  but  helped  it  on  with  all  my  strength,  so 
natural  is  corruption  to  man,  and  so  much  slime  is  there 
mixed  with  the  clay  of  which  he  is  made. 

I  did  for  a  moment  fear  this  growing  leprosy  and 
tried  to  leave  my  corrupter,  but  I  seemed  to  be  sunk 
in  the  floor  up  to  the  knees,  and,  as  it  were,  nailed 
to  the  spot. 

At  last  I  managed  to  leave  her,  and  the  night  being 
far  gone,  I  returned  home  in  great  perplexity  and  trouble 
of  mind,  not  knowing  very  well  what  was  best  for  me 
to  do.  I  hesitated  between  the  prudish  and  the  las- 
civious one.  The  one  seemed  voluptuous  to  me  ;  the 
other  piquant,  and,  after  a  most  thorough  self-examina- 
tion, I  ascertained,  not  that  I  was  in  love  with  both,  but 
that   I  desired  to  have  both,  as  much  the  one  as  the 

170 


•&**f*#JU  *)/%  *A*  *^»  »^*  ^  «J*  #J/»  »A»#1»«A»#JL»I*«A»  ei,  JL  »|«JUJU  *f«  JU*2« 

»w*  •«*    «rr*    vrw    «*v»     *mse    mm    *F»     *r»    •*•    vf*    er*  •*<•  •«?•  *r»  ••«•   •*•  %**#  •**  •»<•  •?»    •>»<•    vr»  •*»•' 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

other,  and  earnestly  enough  to  be  preoccupied  and 
dreamy  about  them. 

In  all  probability,  my  dear  friend,  I  shall  have  one 
of  these  women,  possibly  both,  and  yet  I  confess  that 
possessing  them  will  but  half  satisfy  me.  It  is  not  that 
they  lack  good  looks,  but  at  sight  of  them  nothing 
within  me  called  out,  nothing  beat  high,  nothing  said, 
"  It  is  she."  I  did  not  recognise  them.  And  yet,  as  far 
as  birth  and  beauty  go,  I  do  not  suppose  I  can  do  much 

better,  and  de  C- advises  me  to  seek  no  further. 

I  shall  certainly  do  so,  and  one  of  them  shall  be  my 
mistress  or  the  devil  shall  have  me,  ere  long.  Deep 
down  in  my  heart,  however,  a  secret  voice  reproaches 
me  with  being  false  to  my  love  and  with  being  stayed 
by  the  first  smile  of  a  woman  for  whom  I  care  nothing, 
instead  of  seeking  on  without  rest  through  the  world, 
in  convents  and  places  of  ill-fame,  in  palaces  and  inns, 
her  who  has  been  created  for  me  and  whom  God 
means  me  to  have,  be  she  princess  or  servant,  nun  or 
paramour. 

Then  I  repeat  to  myself  that  I  dream  dreams,  and 
that  it  matters  very  little,  after  all,  whether  I  go  to  bed 
with  one  woman  rather  than  another;  that  this  earth 
will  not,' on  that  account,  change  its  course  by  a  single 

171 


*&%«A*  •%!•  «X*  JL%  •!»  oJU  *|r*  •&•  •&*  #.l*««^#l»^«A©#l»ffl,e»»»|r»»-?r»r»»  «A*  «1««1» 
«U  •**•   «&*   «W   •?¥•    WS*   ««•    «r*    w*w    »r»   «v*   «*•  «r«  •**•  •>*•  •*»  •*•  •/»•  •«*  «*•  «t<*   «*w  *♦*•  w:j 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

line,  and  that  the  four  seasons  will  not  alter  their 
order  in  consequence  ;  that  nothing  is  more  indifferent 
to  me  and  that  it  is  very  foolish  in  me  to  allow  myself 
to  be  bothered  by  such  nonsense ;  that  is  what  I  tell 
myself,  but,  say  what  I  please,  I  am  neither  resolved  nor 
at  peace. 

The  reason  of  this  may  be  that  1  live  much  to  my- 
self and  that  the  slightest  details  in  a  life  as  monoto- 
nous as  mine  is  assume  an  exaggerated  importance.  I 
listen  too  much  to  myself  as  I  live  and  think  ;  I  hear 
the  throbbing  of  my  veins,  the  beating  of  my  heart ; 
by  dint  of  attention  I  free  my  most  impalpable  thoughts 
from  the  mists  in  which  they  float,  and  I  incarnate  them. 
If  I  were  more  a  man  of  action  I  should  not  notice  all 
these  small  matters,  and  I  should  not  have  time  to  ex- 
amine my  soul  with  a  microscope,  as  I  do  all  day  long. 
The  bustle  of  action  would  drive  away  that  swarm  of 
idle  fancies  which  flutter  in  my  brain  and  daze  me  with 
the  buzzing  of  their  wings.  Instead  of  chasing  visions, 
I  should  take  hold  of  realities ;  I  should  ask  of  women 
no  more  than  they  can  give  —  pleasure ;  and  I  would 
not  seek  to  clasp  an  imaginary,  fantastic  ideal  adorned 
with  vague  perfection.  That  intense  tension  of  my 
soul's  eye  fixed  upon  an  invisible  object  has  spoiled  my 

172 


•4**4*  «4*  »4*  •s*  •*»  •!!.'•  *4*  *•*  •*•  •*■•  •=*  •*••*••*•  *h+  •*•  •*•  «4*  •*•  «4«  «*•♦*•  #4* 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

sight.  I  cannot  see  what  is,  by  dint  of  having  gazed 
on  what  is  not,  and  my  sight,  so  keen  to  perceive  the 
ideal  is  quite  short  for  reality ;  for  instance,  I  have 
known  women  whom  everybody  declared  to  be  charm- 
ing and  who  appear  to  me  to  be  the  very  opposite.  I 
hive  greatly  admired  paintings  generally  considered 
poor,  and  eccentric  or  unintelligible  verse  has  often 
pleased  me  more  than  the  most  neatly  turned  produc- 
tions. I  should  not  be  a  bit  surprised  if,  after  having 
so  long  sighed  to  the  moon  and  stared '  at  the  stars, 
after  having  written  so  many  elegies  and  sentimental 
addresses,  I  were  to  fall  in  love  with  some  vile  light  o' 
love  or  some  ugly  old  woman  —  it  would  be  a  pretty 
come  down.  It  may  be  that  reality  will  take  this 
method  of  punishing  me  for  my  neglect  of  it.  Would 
it  not  be  a  sweet  thing  if  I  were  to  fall  madly  in  love 
with  some  kitchen  wench  or  other  or  some  wretched 
dolt  ?  Can  you  see  me  twanging  a  guitar  under  a  kitchen 
window  and  supplanted  by  a  scullion  carrying  the  pet 
dog  of  an  old  dowager  who  is  losing  her  last  tooth  ? 
Perhaps,  too,  finding  no  one  in  this  world  worthy  of 
my  love,  I  shall  end  by  worshipping  myself,  as  did  the 
late  Narcissus,  of  selfish  memory.  To  ward  off  such  a 
misfortune  I  look  into  every  glass  and   brook  I   come 

173 


**•  f^s    v»#    *»•    x^n*     •>»•    •*<«     «v»     «t»    vw>    •*•    •*•  e^»   •*<•  «f»  •*•   Vf*  vr*  vr*  «f»  «*?•    w«    ^r»  «5*» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

across.  In  truth,  thanks  to  excess  of  dreaming  and 
eccentricities,  I  have  a  great  dread  of  falling  into  the 
monstrous  and  abnormal.  It  is  a  serious  matter,  that 
calls  for  care.  Good-bye,  dear  friend  ;  I  am  off  to  the 
pink  lady's  house  for  fear  of  yielding  to  my  usual  con- 
templations. I  fancy  we  shall  not  bother  much  with 
entelechy,  and  that  if  we  do  anything  it  will  certainly 
not  be  in  the  line  of  spiritualism,  although  the  lady  is 
very  witty.  I  carefully  roll  up  and  put  away  in  a  drawer 
the  pattern  of  my  ideal  mistress  so  that  I  shall  not  try  it 
on  this  one.  I  mean  to  enjoy  quietly  the  beauty  and  the 
merit  she  possesses.  I  mean  to  let  her  be  dressed  in  a 
gown  fitted  to  her,  without  trying  to  fit  to  her  the  gar- 
ment which  I  have  cut  out  beforehand,  in  case  of  need, 
for  the  lady  of  my  thoughts.  These  be  wise  resolves ; 
I  know  not  whether  I  shall  keep  to  them.  Once  more, 
adieu. 


174 


•i/»»4*  eJL  #X»  JU  JU  •**  #1*  v»«  •>£*  »t»  •!»#!*  «i*et«#\U#X6  «!•«•*»  «««#§•  •*♦  •£•  #jU 

•r»\»   *■•»•    W»n»    *H    •$•     «*•    •*»     *T>     «fv«    «f*    Wf«    ««•  •>*•   wr*   w*<*  •*<•   «vw   «/»«   wo*   •*"#   *r»    wv»    wr*  »*• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

•A*  *&*  #1*  *st/«  #!/•  Jt»  •Jf*  *..!/»  #1/*  «X»  #A»  •*»•*$*  **•  **»  •*•  •*•  «^«  •***  ***  •!•  **♦  *!*•  •*• 

»M   «m»    •?!•    **•    •»!•     «N     •*»     •?»     •*•     •?•     *I»     *»•   •**•    «^,»   •»'•   •*"•    •»•   •*•    *r»    «f«   »n»    •¥*    «fv  «<• 

III 

I  AM  the  acknowledged  lover  of  the  lady  in  pink  ; 
it  is  almost  a  profession,  an  office,  and  gives  one 
a  standing  in  society.  No  longer  do  I  look  like 
a  schoolboy  in  quest  of  successes  among  grandmothers, 
and  who  dares  not  repeat  a  madrigal  to  a  woman  under 
a  hundred  years  of  age.  I  observe  that  since  I  have 
been  installed,  I  am  much  more  thought  of,  and  all 
women  speak  to  me  with  jealous  coquetry  and  put 
themselves  out  for  me.  Men,  on  the  contrary,  are 
cooler,  and  in  the  few  words  we  exchange  there  is*  a 
touch  of  hostility  and  constraint  ;  they  feel  that  in  me 
they  have  a  rival  already  to  be  feared,  one  who  may  yet 
become  still  more  redoubtable.  I  have  learned  that 
several  of  them  had  severely  criticised  my  mode  of 
dress,  and  had  said  that  it  was  too  effeminate ;  that 
my  hair  was  too  glossy  and  curled  with  more  care  than 
was  proper ;  that  this,  joined  to  my  beardless  face, 
made  me  look  ridiculously  like  a  girl ;  that  I  affected 
the  use  of  rich  and  brilliant  stuffs  which  smacked  of 
the  stage  and  were  fitter  for  an  actor  than  a  man,  —  in 
short,  all  the  commonplaces  uttered  by  those  who  want 

175 


#1*  *1»  JU  *i*  «JU  JL  •!/•  JU  JU  *JU  *&»  *&»«!*  «1« «JU  JU  *!•  #i»  «1% JU  •••  *&•  *^«  '* 

«*•  ««V»    ««v»    «VW    *fv»     «r?w    *n*     ««w     MK     W>     •»•     «*•  *»»    *W   w*  **>»    «?<•   vis*    •««   wfW   «*•    wvw    «*•  v*» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPI    ] 

to  be  dirty  and  to  wear  mean  and  ill-cut  clothes.  But 
all  these  remarks  are  like  water  on  a  duck's  back,  for 
all  the  ladies  think  my  hair  the  most  beautiful  in 
the  world,  my  refinement  in  dress  in  the  very  best 
taste,  and  they  appear  very  much  disposed  to  reward 
me  for  the  trouble  I  take  to  please  them,  as  they  are 
not  fools  enough  to  believe  that  all  this  elegance  is 
intended  merely  to  gratify  my  own  love  of  adorn- 
ment. 

Our  hostess  at  first  manifested  some  pique  at  my 
choice,  supposing  that  I  would  necessarily  single  her 
out,  and  for  a  few  days  she  testified  on  this  account  a 
certain  bitterness  —  towards  her  rival  alone ;  for  she 
treated  me  just  as  before  —  which  came  out  in  "  my 
dears,"  spoken  in  that  dry,  clear-cut  fashion  which 
women  alone  possess,  and  by  some  unpleasant  re- 
marks about  her  dress  made  in  as  loud  a  voice  as 
possible  ;  as,  for  instance,  "  Your  hair  is  dressed 
too  high  and  not  at  all  becomingly  for  your  face  ;  " 
or,  "  Your  dress  does  not  fit  under  the  arms ;  who 
made  that  gown  for  you  ?  "  or  again,  "  Your  eyef 
look  very  tired  ;  I  think  you  are  quite  changed  ;  ' 
and  a  thousand  other  little  remarks ;  to  which  the  othei 
never  failed  to   reply    with   all  desirable    malice   whe 

176 


•i*  #!•  ri»  oJ/»  *£»   JU  JU  rJL  JU  *JU  ^  JU  #1«#|«  ^#l««JUo|««A»«|«  *|«  *|««|«c|a 

V>#   •*»    .*»    vfs    «kW     viit    •£»     or»     *7v»     vr+     *T*     •*»   •*«•   •*•   •*•  •"i,»    «***   **•   •**   **•    **•    •*•    •***  a*" 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

opportunity  offered,  and  if  the  opportunity  was  slow  in 
coming,  she  made  one  for  herself  and  repaid  with  usury 
what  she  had  received.  But  ere  long,  some  other 
individual  having  attracted  the  attention  of  the  disdained 
infanta,  the  little  war  of  words  ceased  and  the  usual 
peace  was  restored. 

I  told  you  briefly  that  I  am  the  declared  lover  of  the 
lady  in  pink,  which  is  not  enough  for  so  methodical 
a  man  as  you.  No  doubt  you  will  inquire  her  name. 
That  I  will  not  tell  you  ;  but  if  you  like,  for  the  con- 
venience of  my  story  and  in  memory  of  the  colour  of 
the  dress  in  which  I  first  saw  her,  we  shall  call  her 
Rosette.  It  is  a  pretty  name  ;  it  was  my  little  dog's 
name. 

You  will  want  to  know  in  detail,  for  you  like 
accuracy  in  such  matters,  the  story  of  my  loves  with 
this  fair  Bradamante,  and  the  successive  steps  by 
which  I  passed  from  the  general  to  the  particular,  and 
from  the  condition  of  mere  spectator  to  that  of  actor; 
how  from  onlooker  I  turned  into  a  lover.  I  shall 
gratify  vour  wish  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  There  is 
nothing  sinister  in  our  love  tale ;  it  is  rose-coloured, 
and  the  only  tears  shed  in  it  are  tears  of  pleasure ;  it 
has   neither  repetitions   nor  prosy  passages,  and  it  hast- 


VOL.    I 12 


177 


»4U  *f*  Jt»  *!/*  •!*  JU  ♦**  *JU  *&%  •!/•  »A*«4»#1»  «£••!*  »JU  «£*•£*  •3*«i»»l*  «*••!•  «J» 

■ra*  «««   «r»   «m   viU    ww   m    •*»    «i»    *?•    «F»    m«  «*»  *r»  •»*»  «vw  «*•  W3»  «Sv»  •*«•  *r*    •**  «*•  «vw 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

ens  to  the  end  with  the  speed  and  haste  so  strongly 
recommended  by  Horace,  —  a  regular  French  novel,  in 
fact. 

Nevertheless,  do  not  take  it  for  granted  that  I 
stormed  the  position  at  the  first  assault.  My  princess, 
though  very  tender-hearted  towards  her  subjects,  is  not 
as  lavish  of  her  favours  as  one  might  believe  at  first ; 
she  knows  their  worth  too  well  not  to  make  you  pay 
for  them,  and  she  also  knows  what  a  sharp  spur  to 
desire  is  a  little  delay,  the  relish  which  partial  resistance 
gives  to  pleasure,  for  her  to  yield  at  the  outset,  however 
strong  the  fancy  she  may  have  taken  to  youe 

If  I  am  to  tell  you  the  story  at  length,  I  shall  have 
to  go  back  somewhat.  I  related  to  you  pretty  fully  the 
account  of  our  first  meeting.  I  met  her  again  once  or 
twice  in  the  same  house,  three  times  perhaps ;  then  she 
invited  me  to  her  home.  You  will  readily  understand 
that  I  required  no  pressing.  I  called  not  too  often  at 
first,  then  a  little  oftener,  then  still  oftener,  and  finally 
as  often  as  I  felt  like  it,  and  I  am  bound  to  confess  I 
felt  like  it  three  or  four  times  a  day.  The  lady  always 
received  me,  after  a  few  hours'  absence,  as  if  I.  had  just 
returned  from  the  East  Indies.  I  felt  this,  of  course, 
deeply  and   had  to  show  my   gratitude   by    saying  the 

^8 


•1*  ei»  »,i.  el*  rl-»  #1,  •!*  JU  <JU  «i*  JU  JU #|»  *|* #§•  JL  «1*  jU  #1*  «!•  *i*  rl%  JU  *1« 

«™*  •/»*   •»».   w   **•    *s\.   «**    «t»    w    •*•   «t»   *r»  «r»  «r»  «^»  «W»  •<*•  *m  « »  «*r#  •  V»   •**  •«(•  «^« 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

most  complimentary  and  tender  things  to  her,  and  she 
replied  as  best  she  could. 

Rosette  —  since  we  have  agreed  to  call  her  so  — 
is  a  very  clever  woman,  who  thoroughly  understands 
men.  Although  she  postponed  the  end  of  the  chapter 
for  some  time,  I  was  not  once  annoyed  with  her, 
which  is  absolutely  amazing,  for  you  know  how  furi- 
ously wrathy  I  become  when  I  do  not  at  once  obtain 
what  I  desire,  and  when  a  woman  resists  longer  than 
the  period  I  have  settled  for  her  in  my  own  mind. 
I  do  not  know  how  Rosette  managed  it ;  at  our  very 
first  meeting  she  made  me  understand  that  she  would 
be  mine,  and  I  was  more  sure  of  it  than  if  I  had  had 
her  promise  in  writing  under  her  own  hand  and  seal. 
You  may  think  that  the  boldness  and  freedom  of  her 
manner  gave  free  play  to  audacious  hopes,  but  I  do 
not  think  that  is  the  real  reason.  I  have  met  women 
whose  astonishing  freedom  dispelled  the  very  shadow 
of  a  doubt,  and  who  did  not  so  impress  me,  and  in 
whose  company  I  experienced  most  uncalled-for  timidity 
and  anxiety. 

The  cause  of  my  being  usually  much  less  amiable  to 
the  women  I  wish  to  possess  than  to  those  who  are  in- 
different to  me  is  the  passionate  expectation   of  an  op- 

179 


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»«%*   «/?\»    •*«*    ww    »<5V#     vw<    •**•     *y»     •<■*    «f«     •»•    •W  W*   *f«  ««»   wro    «r»*  •/*•   •£■«   •*•   •*«»    •»<*    «/**•  cm 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

portunity,  and  the  uncertainty  I  feel  concerning  the 
success  of  my  project.  I  become  sombre  and  fall  into 
a  dreamy  state  that  deprives  me  of  many  of  my  advan- 
tages as  well  as  of  my  presence  of  mind.  When  I  see 
fleeing  by,  one  after  another,  hours  which  I  had  in- 
tended to  devote  to  a  far  different  purpose,  I  become 
angry  in  spite  of  myself,  and  I  cannot  help  saying 
very  dry,  harsh,  occasionally  even  brutal  things, 
which  set  me  back  ever  so  far.  With  Rosette  this 
feeling  has  never  arisen  in  me ;  never,  when  she  was 
resisting  most  vigorously,  have  I  thought  that  she 
desired  to  avoid  my  love.  I  quietly  allowed  her  to  show 
off  all  her  little  coquetries,  and  patiently  bore  with  the 
rather  prolonged  delays  which  it  pleased  her  to  indulge 
in  at  the  expense  of  my  passion.  Her  rigour  had  some- 
thing charming  about  it  which  consoled  me  so  far  as 
consolation  was  possible,  and  even  in  her  Hyrcanian 
cruelties  I  perceived  a  substratum  of  humanity  which 
prevented  my  being  greatly  afraid.  Honest  women, 
even  when  least  honest,  have  a  sour  and  disdainful 
manner  which  is  perfectly  unbearable  to  me.  They 
seem  to  be  always  ready  to  ring  and  have  you  kicked 
out  by  their  lackeys,  and  I  really  think  that  a  man  who 
takes   the    trouble   to   pay  court   to  a  woman  (which    is 

180 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

not  as  pleasant  an  occupation  as  people  believe)  does 
not  deserve  to  be  looked  at  in  such  a  fashion. 

Dear  Rosette  never  looks  so,  and  I  assure  you  she 
gains  by  it.  She  is  the  only  woman  in  whose  company 
I  have  really  been  myself,  and  I  am  conceited  enough 
to  say  that  I  never  showed  to  better  advantage.  My 
wit  exhibited  itself  freely,  and  the  aptness  and  spirit  of 
her  replies  made  me  feel  myself  wittier  than  I  believed 
I  was,  and  wittier,  perhaps,  than  I  really  am.  It  is 
true  that  I  did  not  indulge  in  much  lyrism,  —  that  is 
scarcely  possible   with  her,  although  she  does  not  lack 

a  certain  feeling  for  poetry,  in  spite  of  what  de  C 

said  ;  but  she  is  so  full  of  life,  strength,  and  energy,  she 
seems  to  be  so  thoroughly  in  the  right  place  in  the 
atmosphere  in  which  she  lives,  that  one  does  not 
feel  like  having  to  ascend  into  the  clouds.  She 
fills  real  life  so  pleasantly  and  makes  it  so  delightful 
:o  herself  and  others  that  fancy  can  offer  you  nothing 
Detter. 

Here  is  indeed  a  miracle  !  I  have  known  her  for 
nearly  two  months  and  during  that  time  I  have  experi- 
enced weariness  only  when  away  from  her.  You  will 
icknowledge  that  to  produce  such  an  efFect  she  can  be 
10   ordinary   woman,   since    it   is  usually  the  contrary 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

one  which  women  have  on  me  and  I  am  fonder  of 
them  when  away  than  when  near  them. 

Rosette  is  the  best-tempered  woman  on  earth  —  with 
men,  of  course,  for  with  her  sex  she  is  as  bitter  as  the 
devil.  She  is  bright,  quick,  alert,  ready  to  do  anything, 
very  original  in  her  mode  of  speech,  and  has  always 
some  unexpected  pleasantry  ready  ;  she  is  a  charming 
companion,  a  handsome  comrade  with  whom  one  goes 
to  bed,  rather  than  a  mistress,  and  if  I  were  somewhat 
older  and  somewhat  less  romanesque,  I  should  not  care 
a  rap,  and  I  should  even  consider  myself  the  most  for- 
tunate of  mortals.  But  —  but,  —  that  particle  bodes 
no  good,  and  this  devilish  little  restrictive  word  is 
unfortunately  the  most  frequently  used  in  all  human 
tongues, — but  I  am  a  fool,  a  dolt,  a  goose,  for  I  am 
never  satisfied  and  seek  the  impossible;  so  that  instead 
of  being  quite  happy,  I  am  only  half  happy.  To  be 
half  happy  is  a  good  deal  in  this  world,  and  yet  it  strikes 
me  as  insufficient. 

Everybody  thinks  I  have  a  mistress,  desired  by  several 
who  envy  me  her  possession,  disdained  by  none.  Ap- 
parently, therefore,  my  wish  is  fulfilled  and  I  have  no 
right  to  quarrel  with  fate.  All  the  same  I  do  not  feel 
as  if  I  had  a  mistress ;   my  reason  understands  that  I 

182 


MADEMOISELLE    DE     MAUPIN 

have  one,  but  I  do  not  feel  it,  and  if  any  one  were  to 
ask  me  unexpectedly  whether  I  have  one,  I  believe  I 
would  say  no.  Yet  the  possession  of  a  beautiful,  young, 
and  clever  woman  is  what,  in  all  ages  and  all  countries, 
has  been  and  is  called  having  a  mistress,  and  I  do  not 
believe  there  is  any  other  way  of  having  one.  Still,  I 
have  the  queerest  doubts  on  the  point,  and  to  such  a 
degree  that  if  a  number  of  people  agreed  to  maintain  to 
me  that  I  am  not  Rosette's  favoured  lover,  I  should, 
spite  of  the  plainest  evidence  to  the  contrary,  end  by 
believing  them. 

Do  not  let  what  I  have  said  lead  you  to  think  that  I 
do  not  love  her,  or  that  she  is  in  any  respect  repugnant  to 
me.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  very  much  in  love  with 
her  and  think  her  what  everybody  must  think  her,  a 
pretty  and  piquant  creature.  But  I  simply  feel  that  I 
do  not  possess  her,  that  is  all ;  and  this  maugre  the 
fact  that  no  woman  has  ever  given  me  so  much  pleasure 
and  that,  if  I  have  known  sensual  delight,  it  is  while 
in  her  arms.  A  single  kiss  from  her,  the  most  chaste 
caress,  makes  me  tremble  from  head  to  foot  and  drives 
all  the  blood  to  my  heart.  Reconcile  these  things  if 
you  can.  The  truth  is  as  I  tell  it  you.  But  the  heart 
of  man  is  full  of  such  incongruities,  and  if  we  had  to 

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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

reconcile  all  the  contradictions  it  contains,  our  work 
would  be  cut  out  for  us. 

How  does  this  come  about  ?      Really  I  cannot  tell. 

I  see  her  all  day  long,  and  all  night  long,  if  I  am  so 
minded.  I  caress  her  as  much  as  I  like ;  I  have  her 
nude  or  dressed,  in  town  or  in  the  country.  Her  good- 
nature is  inexhaustible,  and  she  thoroughly  enters  into 
my  capricious  fancies,  however  extraordinary  they  may 
be.  One  evening  I  wished  to  possess  her  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  drawing-room,  with  the  chandelier  and 
sconces  lighted,  a  fire  on  the  hearth,  the  arm-chairs  ar- 
ranged in  a  circle  as  if  for  a  large  evening  reception, 
she  in  her  ball-dress,  with  her  bouquet  and  her  fan,  all 
her  diamonds  round  her  neck  and  on  her  fingers, 
feathers  in  her  hair,  in  the  most  splendid  toilet,  and  I 
dressed  as  a  bear.     She  consented. 

When  all  was  ready  the  servants  were  greatly  sur- 
prised to  receive  orders  to  close  the  doors  and  to  admit 
no  one ;  they  could  not  make  head  or  tail  out  of  it,  and 
went  off  with  a  wondering,  stupid  look  which  made  us 
laugh  heartily.  They  certainly  thought  their  mistress 
was  crazy,  but  what  they  thought  or  did  not  think  mat- 
tered little  to  us. 

That  was  the  funniest  evening  I  ever  spent.      Can 

184 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

you  imagine  how  I  looked  with  a  plumed  hat  under  one 
paw,  rings  on  all  my  claws,  and  a  silver-hiked,  blue- 
ribboned  small  sword  ?  I  drew  close  to  my  beauty,  and 
after  bowing  most  gracefully  I  sat  down  by  her  and 
laid  siege  to  her  in  the  most  approved  fashion.  The 
perfumed  madrigals,  the  exaggerated  compliments  which 
I  paid  her,  the  regulation  jargon,  became  more  striking 
uttered  through  my  bear's-head  ;  for  I  had  a  splendid 
bear's-head  of  painted  cardboard,  which  I  soon  was 
forced  to  throw  under  the  table,  so  adorable  was  my 
goddess  that  evening,  and  so  greatly  did  I  desire  to  kiss 
her  hand  and  more  than  her  hand.  The  bear-skin 
speedily  took  the  same  road  as  the  head,  for  not  being 
used  to  play  Bruin,  I  was  stifling  inside  my  furs. 
Then,  as  you  will  readily  believe,  the  ball-dress  had  a 
time  of  it.  The  feathers  fell  like  snow  around  my 
beauty,  the  shoulders  soon  showed  out  of  the  sleeves, 
the  breasts  out  of  the  stays,  the  feet  out  of  the  shoes, 
the  legs  out  of  the  stockings ;  the  broken  necklaces 
rolled  on  the  floor,  and  I  do  not  believe  a  new  dress 
was  ever  more  pitilessly  crushed  and  rumpled.  It  was 
of  silver  gauze,  with  an  underskirt  of  white  satin. 
On  this  occasion  Rosette  displayed  heroism  superior 
to  her  sex,  which  gave  me  the  highest  opinion  of  her. 

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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

She  witnessed  the  destruction  of  her  toilet  as  if  she 
were  a  disinterested  spectator,  and  did  not  for  a  single 
moment  appear  to  regret  her  dress  and  her  lace.  On 
the  contrary,  she  was  madly  excited  and  herself  helped 
to  tear  and  break  whatever  could  not  be  undone  or  un- 
hooked quickly  enough  to  satisfy  her  or  me.  Do  you 
not  agree  that  this  trait  is  fine  enough  to  be  preserved 
in  history  alongside  of  the  most  brilliant  deeds  of  the 
heroes  of  antiquity  ?  The  greatest  proof  of  love  a 
woman  can  give  a  man  is  not  to  say  to  him,  "  Take 
care  not  to  rumple  me  or  to  spot  my  dress  "  —  especially 
if  the  dress  is  new.  A  new  gown  is  a  greater  guaran- 
tee of  security  to  a  husband  than  is  generally  recognised. 
Either  Rosette  must  fairly  worship  me,  or  as  a  philoso- 
pher she  is  superior  to   Epictetus. 

All  the  same,  I  think  I  more  than  paid  Rosette  for 
her  gown,  in  money  which,  though  not  current  among 
tradesmen,  is  none  the  less  esteemed  and  prized.  So 
great  heroism  merited  such  a  recompense.  Besides, 
like  the  generous  woman  she  is,  she  gave  me  as  good 
as  she  got.  I  enjoyed  the  keenest  delight,  almost  con- 
vulsive and  such  as  I  did  not  suppose  I  was  capable  of 
experiencing.  Her  sounding  kisses  mingling  with  loud 
laughter,  her  eager  caresses,  the    strong  and  irritating 

186 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

lust,  pleasure  which  dress  and  place  prevented  being 
had  to  the  full,  but  keener  a  thousand  times  for  these 
obstacles,  acted  so  much  on  my  nerves  that  I  had 
spasms,  from   which   I  recovered  with   some  difficulty. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  Rosette's  tender  and 
proud  look  as  she  sought  to  make  me  regain  con- 
sciousness, and  the  mingling  of  joy  and  anxiety  in  her 
manner  as  she  worked  over  me.  Her  face  shone  with 
delight  at  having  produced  such  an  effect  on  me,  while 
her  eyes,  filled  with  sweet  tears,  testified  to  the  fright 
my  indisposition  gave  her  and  to  the  interest  she  took 
in  my  health.  Never  did  she  appear  so  fair  as  at  that 
moment.  There  was  something  so  chaste  and  maternal 
in  her  glance  that  I  completely  forgot  the  exceedingly 
anacreontic  scene  which  had  just  occurred,  and  knelt 
before  her  as  I  begged  leave  to  kiss  her  hand,  which 
she,  with  singular  gravity  and  dignity,  allowed  me  to  do. 

Certainly  that  woman  is  not  so  depraved  as  de  C 

maintains,  and  as  she  has  often  seemed  to  me  to  be. 
It  is  her  mind,  not  her  heart,  that  is  corrupted. 

I  have  described  this  scene  as  I  might  describe  a  score 
of  others.  It  strikes  me  that  one  may,  after  that,  and 
without  being  conceited,  believe  one's  self  a  woman's 
lover.      Well,  that    is   exactly  what   I   do  not.      I   had 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

scarcely  reached  home  before  this  thought  again  seized 
on  me  and  began  to  worry  me  as  usual.  I  remembered 
perfectly  all  I  had  done  and  seen  done.  The  slightest 
gestures  and  attitudes,  the  least  details  stood  out  clearly 
in  my  memory.  I  recalled  everything,  even  the  faintest 
changes  of  tone  of  her  voice  and  the  indefinable  grada- 
tions of  voluptuousness  ;  only,  I  did  not  feel  that  these 
things  had  happened  to  me  rather  than  to  any  one  else. 
I  was  not  sure  that  the  whole  affair  was  not  an  illusion, 
a  phantasm,  a  dream,  or  else  something  I  had  read 
somewhere,  or  even  a  story  imagined  by  myself,  as  I 
often  imagine  them.  I  trembled  lest  I  should  be  the 
victim  of  my  own  credulity  or  of  some  practical  joke, 
and,  spite  of  the  testimony  of  my  fatigue  and  the  physi- 
cal proofs  that  I  had  spent  the  night  out,  I  could  readily 
have  believed  that  I  had  turned  in  at  my  usual  time 
and  slept   until   morning. 

It  is  most  unfortunate  that  I  cannot  be  morally  cer- 
tain of  that  of  which  I  am  physically  certain.  Usu- 
ally things  are  the  other  way,  and  the  fact  is  a  proof 
of  the  idea.  I  wish  it  could  be  so  in  my  case,  but  it 
is  of  no  use.  Queer  as  the  fact  may  seem,  it  is  a 
fact  none  the  less.  It  depends  on  me,  up  to  a  certain 
point,  to  have  a  mistress,  but  I  cannot,  though  I  have 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

one,  bring  myself  to  believe  that  I  do  have  her.  If 
I  lack  the  necessary  faith,  even  for  so  evident  a  mat- 
ter, it  is  just  as  impossible  for  me  to  believe  in  so 
simple  a  fact  as  for  some  one  else  to  believe  in  the 
Trinity.  Faith  is  not  to  be  acquired ;  it  is  a  down- 
right gift,  a  special  favour  from   Heaven. 

Never  did  any  one  desire  as  keenly  as  I  to  live 
the  lives  of  others  and  to  assimilate  another  na- 
ture ;  and  never  did  any  one  fail  more  completely. 
Do  what  I  may,  other  men  are  to  me  phantoms  al- 
most, and  I  do  not  realise  their  existence  ;  yet  I  do 
not  lack  the  wish  to  know  their  life  and  to  share  in  it. 
It  arises  from  a  lack  of  real  sympathy  for  anything. 
The  existence  or  non-existence  of  a  person  or  thing 
does  not  interest  me  sufficiently  to  affect  me  in  a  tan- 
gible and  convincing  manner.  The  sight  of  a  real 
man  or  woman  leaves  in  my  mind  no  deeper  trace 
than  the  fantastic  vision  of  a  dream.  There  moves 
around  me  a  world  of  pale  shadows  and  of  seemings, 
false  or  true,  whose  low  murmur  I  hear  and  among 
whom  I  am  absolutely  isolated,  for  not  one  influences 
me  for  good  or  evil,  and  they  appear  to  me  to  be  of  a 
nature  different  from  mine.  If  I  speak  to  them  and 
they  reply  with  an  approach  to  common-sense,  I  am  as 

189 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

much  surprised  as  if  my  cat  or  my  dog  were  suddenly 
to  speak  and  take  part  in  the  conversation.  The 
sound  of  their  voices  always  amazes  me,  and  I  am 
not  far  from  believing  that  they  are  merely  fugitive  ap- 
pearances, and  I  the  objective  mirror.  Whether  I  am 
better  or  worse  than  they,  I  assuredly  do  not  belong  to 
their  species.  At  times  I  recognise  but  One  as  superior 
to  myself;  at  others  I  think  I  am  scarce  the  equal  of 
the  cockroach  under  its  stone,  or  the  mollusc  clinging 
to  the  rock ;  but  no  matter  what  may  be  my  state  of 
mind,  I  can  never  persuade  myself  that  men  are  really 
my  fellows.  When  I  am  addressed  as  "  sir,"  or  when 
some  one  speaking  of  me  says,  "  that  man,"  it  strikes 
me  as  very  strange.  My  name  itself  seems  assumed, 
and  not  my  true  name;  yet,  speak  it  as  low  as  you 
please,  in  the  midst  of  the  greatest  din,  and  I  turn 
round  suddenly  with  convulsive,  feverish  vivacity,  which 
I  have  never  thoroughly  understood.  Is  it  because  I 
fear  to  find  an  opponent  or  an  enemy  in  that  man  who 
knows  my  name  and  to  whom  I  am  no  longer  merely 
one  of  the  crowd  ? 

It  is  especially  when  living  with  a  woman  that  I 
have  most  felt  how  irresistibly  my  nature  rebels  at  any 
union  or  mingling  with  another.       I  am  like  a  drop  of 

190 


4B«  «K»   *r-   wr*    •*•    W5»    A    «r>    •*!•    «iw    •*•   wiw  «*»•  •*•  •»<•  •*•  «t»  «/r*  *r«  ««•  «r»   «w  wp*  «B» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

oil  in  a  glass  of  water.  Stir  as  you  please,  you  will 
never  get  the  one  to  mix  with  the  other ;  it  will  break 
up  into  an  infinite  number  of  globules,  which  will  unite 
and  rise  to  the  surface  at  the  first  opportunity  ;  a  drop 
of  oil  in  a  glass  of  water — that  is  my  whole  story. 
Even  voluptuousness,  that  diamond  chain  which  binds 
all  beings  ;  that  devouring  fire  which  melts  the  rocks 
and  metals  of  the  soul  and  makes  them  fall  back  in  a 
rain  of  tears,  just  as  material  fire  melts  iron  and  gran- 
ite, has  never,  powerful  though  it  be,  tamed  or  softened 
me.  I  have  highly  developed  senses,  but  my  soul  is 
hostile  to  its  mate,  my  body,  and  the  unhappy  pair,  like 
all  legal  or  illegal  couples,  lives  in  a  constant  state  of 
warfare.  A  woman's  arms,  said  to  be  the  fastest 
bonds  on  earth,  are  but  slight  ties  for  me,  and  I  have 
never  been  further  from  my  mistress  than  when  she 
was  pressing  me  to  her  heart.      I  choked,  that  was  all. 

How  often  have  I  grown  angry  with  myself,  and 
what  efforts  have  I  not  made  to  become  different ! 
How  hard  have  I  tried  to  be  tender,  loving,  passion- 
ate !  How  often  have  I  dragged  up  my  soul  by  force 
to  my  lips  in  the  midst  of  a  kiss  ?  Do  what  I  would, 
I  no  sooner  released  my  grasp  than  it  fled,  wiping  away 
the  kiss.      It   is   torture   to   that    unhappy   soul  to   be 

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4*  4*  4*  4*  4*  4*  4»4*4«4*4»4»4»4«4*4*4«4«4*4*4«4*4»4* 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

compelled  to  be  present  at  the  debauches  of  my  body, 
and  to  sit  down  constantly  to  feasts  at  which  it  starves  ! 

I  determined,  once  for  all,  to  try  with  Rosette 
whether  or  not  I  am  absolutely  unsociable,  and  whether 
I  can  become  sufficiently  interested  in  another's  life  to 
believe  in  it.  I  have  carried  my  experiments  to  the 
point  of  exhaustion,  and  my  condition  of  doubt  is  not 
much  changed.  With  her,  pleasure  is  so  intense  that 
my  soul  is  often  somewhat  interested,  if  not  touched, 
and  this  interferes  to  a  certain  extent  with  the  accuracy 
of  my  observations.  In  the  end  I  noticed  that  the 
enjoyment  was  skin-deep  and  merely  superficial,  the 
soul's  participation  in  it  being  merely  that  of  curiosity. 
I  enjoy  myself  because  I  am  young  and  lusty,  but  I, 
and  not  any  one  else,  am  the  source  of  the  pleasure  I 
feel.      Its  cause  is  in  me  rather  than  in  Rosette. 

Try  as  hard  as  I  may,  I  cannot  go  out  of  myself  for 
a  single  moment.  I  remain  what  I  am  always,  —  an 
exceedingly  weary  and  wearisome  being,  in  whom  I 
take  no  pleasure.  I  cannot  manage  to  get  an  altruistic 
idea  in  my  head,  an  altruistic  feeling  in  my  soul, 
to  feel  in  my  own  body  the  pain  or  pleasure  felt  by 
some  one  else.  I  am  prisoned  within  myself,  and  in- 
vasion of  my  being  is  impossible.     The  prisoner  seeks 

192 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 


to  escape ;  the  walls  would  gladly  fall  in  ruins,  the 
gates  open  to  let  him  pass,  but  some  fatal  power  keeps 
the  stones  in  their  places  and  the  bolts  in  their  slots. 
It  is  as  impossible  for  me  to  let  any  one  into  myself 
as  for  me  to  enter  into  any  one  else.  I  can  neither 
pay  nor  receive  visits,  and  I  live  in  saddest  isolation  in 
the  midst  of  a  crowd;  my  bed  may  be  tenanted,  but 
my  heart  is  always  empty. 

Why  can  we  not  add  a  single  mite,  a  single  atom  to 
our  being  ?  Why  can  we  not  make  the  blood  of  others 
flow  in  our  veins  ?  Why  must  we  always  see  with  our 
eyes  alone,  —  no  more  distinctly,  no  farther,  not  other- 
wise ?  Why  must  we  hear  sounds  with  the  same  ears 
and  the  same  emotion,  touch  with  the  same  fingers, 
perceive  varying  things  with  an  unvarying  organ,  be 
condemned  to  the  same  tone  of  voice,  to  the  recurrence 
of  the  same  inflections,  the  same  terms,  the  same 
words,  and  be  unable  to  escape,  to  avoid  self,  to  take 
refuge  in  some  corner  where  it  will  not  follow  ? 
Why  must  we  ever  keep  our  own  self,  dine  and  sleep 
with  it,  be  the  same  man  to  twenty  different  women, 
be  necessarily,  in  the  most  striking  scenes  of  our  life 
drama,  the  same  unavoidable  personage  whose  lines  we 
know  by  heart,  think  the  same  things,  and  dream  the 

vol.  i— -  13  193 


•&•«§»#£*  *JU  «JU  «§»  <4/«  •*»  *JU  »f*«4*  *£•*!••£••£•  •£*•£*  •!*•!?  **••§•  «&•  •!**£» 

•»•  «M*    41*    «■»     «nr*     «rtw    «rv     •«*     «p*    «*»     w     *!•  •*»   «MT*  «••  •■<•    *»»  «M   «K»  «W«    w*v    KM    **•  W5# 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

same  dreams  ?  Oh,  the  weariness  of  it !  the  torture 
of  it! 

I  have  longed  for  the  horn  of  the  Tangut  brothers, 
the  cap  of  Fortunatus,  the  wand  of  Abaris,  the  ring  of 
Gyges.  I  would  have  given  my  soul  to  snatch  the 
magic  wand  from  a  fairy's  hand,  but  never  have  I  so 
earnestly  longed  for  anything  so  much  as  to  meet  on 
the  mountain  side,  as  did  Tiresias  the  wizard,  the  ser- 
pents which  make  you  change  your  sex ;  and  what  I 
most  envy  in  the  monstrous  strange  gods  of  India  is 
their  perpetual  avatars  and  their  innumerable  trans- 
formations. 

I  began  by  desiring  to  be  another  man;  then,  reflect- 
ing that  I  could  pretty  closely  foresee,  by  analogy,  what 
my  feelings  would  be,  and  thus  be  deprived  of  the  ex- 
pected surprise  and  change,  I  would  have  preferred  to 
be  a  woman.  That  fancy  has  always  recurred  to  me 
when  I  happened  to  have  a  mistress  who  was  not  ugly, 
for  an  ugly  woman  is  the  same  as  a  man  to  me.  In 
moments  of  pleasure  I  would  willingly  have  changed 
places  with  my  mistress,  for  it  is  very  annoying  not  to 
know  exactly  the  effect  you  are  producing,  and  to  judge 
of  the  pleasure  others  are  enjoying  merely  by  that  you 
feel.       These  and  many  similar  thoughts  have  caused 

194 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

me  often,  at  most  unseasonable  times,  to  look  thought- 
ful and  meditative,  and  thus  to  be  wrongly  accused  of 
coldness  and  infidelity. 

Rosette,  who,  very  fortunately,  is  ignorant  of  all 
this,  thinks  I  am  the  finest  lover  on  earth  ;  she  mistakes 
my  powerless  fury  for  passionate  fury,  and  seconds  as 
well  as  she  can  the  caprices  of  experimentation  which 
occur  to  me. 

I  have  done  all  I  could  to  convince  myself  that  I 
possess  her;  I  have  tried  to  penetrate  into  her  heart, 
but  I  have  always  stopped  at  the  first  step,  at  her  skin 
or  at  her  lips.  Notwithstanding  the  intimacy  of  our 
physical  intercourse,  I  feel  deeply  that  we  have  nothing 
in  common.  Never  once  has  any  idea  similar  to  my 
ideas  unfolded  its  wings  in  that  young  and  lovely  head  ; 
never  has  that  heart,  so  full  of  life  and  passion,  whose 
beating  causes  that  firm,  white  bosom  to  heave  and  fall, 
beaten  with  the  beating  of  my  heart ;  my  soul  has  never 
been  one  with  her  soul ;  Cupid,  the  hawk-winged,  has 
not  kissed  Psyche's  ivory  brow.  No,  —  that  woman  is 
not  my  mistress. 

Could  you  but  know  all  I  have  done  to  compel  my 
soul  to  love  as  loves  my  frame  ;  the  fury  with  which  I 
have  glued   my  lips  to   hers,  drawn  my  hands  through 

195 


•ft*  ***  #»*/»  •*!/•  #J/»  ***  •I*  «J/»  eft*  •*»  #J/b  •*»«►?/»  «■!/•  <r&»  »X»  j**w  o-f^s  «^»  #*•  »*•  **»  •*»  ♦*• 
w*v»  «/»\e    */v»    w»    vT>«     •*!»»    •*»    •*»    *»K»    *t»»    •***•    *»*  •*•  «^»  W5»»  •*>•  •«<•  w  »r*»  •f*  •'»'•    •*»<•   •**»  •*>• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

her  hair,  pressed  closely  her  round,  supple  waist.  Like 
the  Salmacis  of  antiquity,  in  love  with  the  young  Her- 
maphrodite, I  strove  to  confound  our  bodies  one  with 
the  other.  I  drank  in  her  breath  and  the  warm  tears 
which  the  heat  of  love  caused  to  drop  from  the  over- 
flowing calyx  of  her  eyes.  The  closer  we  pressed  each 
other,  the  more  intense  our  embraces,  the  less  I  loved 
her.  My  soul,  sitting  sadly  apart,  gazed  with  pity  upon 
that  wretched  union  to  which  she  was  not  bidden,  or 
veiled  her  brow  in  disgust  and  wept  silently  under  her 
mantle.  All  this  may  be  due  to  the  fact  that  I  do  not 
really  love  Rosette,  worthy  of  love  though  she  be,  and 
no  matter  how  greatly  I  desire  to  do  so. 

To  rid  myself  of  the  notion  that  I  was  myself,  I 
imagined  utterly  strange  surroundings  in  which  it  was 
quite  improbable  I  should  be,  and,  unable  to  cast  my 
individuality  to  the  winds,  I  endeavoured  to  take  it  into 
scenes  so  foreign  that  it  would  fail  to  know  itself  there. 
My  success  has  been  but  indifferent ;  that  devilish  Me 
dogs  me;  I  cannot  away  with  it;  I  cannot  even  have 
it  told,  as  to  other  bores,  that  I  am  out,  or  that  I  have 
gone  to  the  country. 

I  have  had  my  mistress  when  bathing,  and  played  the 
Triton's  part  to  the  best  of  my  ability.     Our  sea  was  a 

196 


»lr*  *£*  +&y  *±*  •>!'•  *4*  «J*  *f/t  «!/•  •!»  •!*  •!-»  *JL  #A»  •*•  JU  «J-»  «1«  *l»  •*•  •§•  •*•  #*•  #!♦ 

«»   <^«    »<    w     ^r.     «w    «ro     .t.     «»••••    .7.    *w»  «?•   «i»  •*»  «^»    v*»   ***   «»   «*•   «*»    <—•    •»•  •**• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

huee  marble  bath.  As  for  the  Nereid,  what  she  ex- 
hibited  made  the  water,  transparent  as  it  was,  guilty  of 
not  being  transparent  enough  for  the  exquisite  beauty 
of  what  it  concealed.  I  have  possessed  her  at  night,  by 
moonlight,  in  a  gondola  and  to  the  sound  of  music, 
which  is  uncommon  here,  if  usual  enough  in  Venice.  I 
have  enjoyed  her  in  her  carriage,  driven  at  full  speed,  to 
the  sound  of  the  wheels,  the  bumps  and  the  shocks,  now 
lighted  up  by  the  lamps,  now  plunged  in  deepest  dark- 
ness. There  is  a  certain  piquancy  in  this  mode,  and  I 
advise  you  to  try  it ;  but  I  forget,  —  you  are  a  regular 
patriarch  and  do  not  indulge  in  such  refinements.  I 
have  gone  to  her  through  the  window,  having  the  door- 
key  in  my  pocket.  I  have  made  her  come  to  my 
house  in  broad  daylight,  —  in  a  word,  I  have  com- 
promised her  in  such  fashion  that  no  one  now,  save 
myself,  of  course,  has  any  doubt  of  her  being  my 
mistress. 

Thanks  to  all  these  inventions,  which,  were  I  not 
so  young,  would  seem  the  resources  of  a  worn-out 
libertine,  Rosette  adores  me  chiefly  and  beyond  all 
others.  She  sees  in  them  the  fire  of  a  petulant  love 
that  cannot  be  restrained,  and  which  is  ever  the  same 
whatever  the  place  or  time,  —  the  ever-renewed  effect  of 

197 


•!/•  el*  #vl/»  «J/«  #>!/*  #&•  «J /»  #At»  «&»  *JU  •>»»  «*»  ««i»  **•  •*•  »!>•  •&•  »*•  #1*  «&*  «X»  «JU  «JU  #1% 

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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

her  charms  and  the  triumph  of  her  beauty  ;  and  I  would, 
in  truth,  she  were  right ;  if  she  is  not,  I  must  do  her 
the  justice  to  say  it  is  neither  her  fault  nor  mine. 

The  only  wrong  I  do  her  is  that  I  am  myself. 
Were  I  to  say  so  to  her,  she  would  at  once  reply  that 
that  is  precisely  my  greatest  merit  in  her  eyes,  which 
would  be  more  polite  than  sensible. 

Once  —  it  was  in  the  beginnings  of  our  love  affair 
—  I  thought  I  had  attained  my  end ;  for  one  minute  I 
believed  I  loved  —  I  did  love.  Oh,  my  friend,  that 
minute  is  the  only  time  during  which  I  have  really 
lived,  and  had  it  been  prolonged  to  an  hour,  I  should 
have  become  a  god.  We  had  ridden  out  together,  I  on 
my  dear  Ferragus,  she  on  a  snow-white  mare  that,  with 
her  clean  limbs  and  well-turned  neck,  looks  like  a  uni- 
corn. We  were  proceeding  down  a  great  avenue  of 
extraordinarily  lofty  elms;  the  warm  golden  sunshine 
shone  down  upon  us  through  the  net-work  of  the  leafy 
screen  ;  bits  of  ultramarine  gleamed  here  and  there  in 
dappled  clouds,  great  bands  of  pale-blue  ran  along  the 
verge  of  the  horizon  and,  as  they  met  the  orange  tones 
of  the  sunset  sky,  turned  into  the  palest  and  tenderest 
apple-green.  The  aspect  of  the  heavens  was  strangely 
fair ;   the  breeze  wafted  to  us   an  indescribably   sweet 

198 


JL  *|*  «4*  •l*  •1'*  *4»  •i~  •l"  «4*  •*•  •**  •*»•!*  •**  •*»  »I*  •**  «!•  JU  •*•  •!•  •!♦  #I*  #*, 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

scent  of  wild  flowers.  From  time  to  time  a  bird  started 
up  in  front  of  us  and  flew  across  the  avenue  with  a 
chirp.  A  bell  in  some  hidden  village  was  softly 
ringing  out  the  Angelus,  and  its  silvery  tones,  softened 
by  distance,  were  passing  sweet.  Our  horses  walked 
side  by  side  at  so  even  a  gait  that  neither  passed  the 
other.  My  heart  swelled ;  I  was  becoming  all  soul 
and  forgetting  the  body.  Never  had  I  been  so  happy. 
We  were  both  silent,  yet  never  had  we  so  well  under- 
stood each  other.  We  were  so  close  that  my  leg 
touched  the  flank  of  Rosette's  mare.  I  bent  towards 
her  and  put  my  arm  round  her  waist  ;  she  did  the 
same  and  let  her  head  fall  on  my  shoulder.  Our 
lips  met  in  a  kiss  chaste  and  sweet  beyond  all  concep- 
tion. Our  steeds  walked  on  with  loose  reins.  I  felt 
Rosette's  arm  relax  and  her  back  yield  more  and 
more.  I  too  was  losing  strength  and  nearly  fainting. 
I  assure  you  that  just  then  I  did  not  trouble  to  know 
whether  I  was  myself  or  some  one  else. 

We  rode  in  this  way  to  the  end  of  the  avenue,  when 
the  sound  of  steps  made  us  abruptly  resume  our  former 
positions.  It  was  acquaintances  of  ours,  also  on  horse- 
back, who  rode  up  and  spoke  to  us;  I  would  have  shot 
them,  had  I  had  my  pistols. 

199 


•4»«4U  Jt»  rJU  *A»  #&*  •£•  *4*  ***  •*•  •**#jU#|»*^«J^»*»»l*»A*#^#A»6fc3*  •■•  •§••*» 
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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

I  kept  looking  at  them  with  a  gloomy,  angry  air 
which  must  have  struck  them  as  exceedingly  strange. 
After  all,  I  was  wrong  to  be  so  angry  with  them,  for 
they  had  unwittingly  done  me  the  favour  of  breaking  in 
upon  my  happiness  at  the  very  moment  when,  thanks  to 
its  intensity,  it  was  about  to  turn  to  pain  or  to  sink 
under  its  own  weight.  The  art  of  stopping  in  time  is 
entitled  to  more  respect  than  it  receives.  It  happens 
that,  being  in  bed  with  a  woman,  you  put  your  arm 
round  her  waist.  At  first  it  is  most  voluptuous  to  feel 
the  gentle  warmth  of  her  body,  the  soft,  velvety  back, 
the  polished  ivory  of  the  hips,  and  to  let  the  hand  close 
upon  the  swelling,  heaving  breast.  The  fair  one  falls 
asleep  in  that  posture,  at  once  charming  and  sensual ; 
the  back  becomes  more  yielding,  the  heaving  of  the 
bosom  diminishes,  the  breast  heaves  with  the  longer  and 
more  even  respiration  of  sleep,  the  muscles  become  less 
tense,  the  head  rolls  in  her  hair.  Meanwhile  the  weight 
on  your  arm  increases,  and  you  begin  to  perceive  that 
it  is  not  a  sylph  but  a  woman  whom  you  are  support- 
ing. Nevertheless,  nothing  would  induce  you  to  with- 
draw your  arm,  and  that  for  many  reasons :  first, 
because  awakening  a  sleeping  woman  is  rather  danger- 
ous ;   one  has  to  be  in  condition  to  substitute  for  the 

200 


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.*. 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

delightful  dream  she  is  no  doubt  dreaming  a  reality  that 
shall  be  more  delightful  still;  next,  because  if  you  ask 
her  to  raise  herself  sufficiently  to  enable  you  to  with- 
draw your  arm,  you  indirectly  intimate  that  she  is 
heavy  and  a  trouble  to  you,  which  is  not  proper ;  or 
you  give  her  to  understand  that  you  are  weak  and 
fatigued,  a  most  humiliating  confession  on  your  part, 
which  will  greatly  injure  you  in  her  mind  ;  finally,  as 
one  has  derived  pleasure  from  that  position,  one  fancies 
that  by  maintaining  it  more  pleasure  will  be  obtained, 
wherein  one  is  mistaken.  The  poor  arm  is  caught 
under  the  pressing  weight,  the  circulation  stops,  the 
nerves  are  strained  and  numbness  stings  you  with  its 
innumerable  stings.  You  become  a  sort  of  small  Milo 
of  Croton,  the  mattress  and  your  fair  one's  back  repre- 
senting fairly  enough  the  two  parts  of  the  tree  that 
have  closed.  At  last  day  comes  to  free  you  from  tor- 
ture and  you  spring  from  the  rack  with  greater  eager- 
ness than  a  husband  ever  exhibits  in  getting  off  the 
nuptial   scaffold. 

Such  is  the  history  of  many  a  passion,  and  that  of  all 
pleasure. 

However  this  may  be,  either  because  of  or  in  spite 
of  the    interruption,    never    had    I    experienced    such 

20 1 


•J/*  *A»  *!•  «J/%  #J/»  ^i»  •!/•  JK  #1^»  *JU  *A»  •&»•£•  «£•  #1*  #1*  »t»  «l*  JU  #1*  el*  «-£*  *£««i« 

«-»v»   •/*»    *<w*    •<*«    *-r*     •»•>•    wfM     •»»     *r*     wr»    «T»    •*•  «f»   •*»  •"*  «S5»    «*S»  «£<•   vr»   •>?•   «*W    •*•    «S#  wpa 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

sensuous  delight  ;  I  really  felt  myself  a  different  being. 
Rosette's  soul  had  wholly  entered  into  my  body. 
Mine  had  left  me,  and  filled  her  heart  as  hers  filled 
mine.  No  doubt  they  had  met  in  that  long  equestrian 
kiss  (as  Rosette  has  since  called  it,  which,  by  the  way, 
annoyed  me),  and  had  traversed  each  other  and  mingled 
with  each  other  as  completely  as  two  mortal  souls  can 
do  it  on  this  perishable  atom  of  mud.  Assuredly 
angels  must  so  kiss,  and  the  true  Paradise  is  not  in 
heaven,  but  on   a  loved  woman's  lips. 

In  vain  have  I  waited  for  the  recurrence  of  such  a 
moment,  and  I  have  unsuccessfully  endeavoured  to  force 
a  return  of  it.  We  have  often  ridden  down  the  wood- 
land avenue  during  fine  sunsets;  the  trees  were  green 
as  ever,  the  birds  warbled  the  same  songs,  but  to  us  the 
sun  was  dimmed,  the  foliage  browned,  the  song  of 
birds  harsh  and  discordant  —  harmonv  had  left  us. 
We  walked  our  horses  and  tried  the  same  kiss.  Alas  ! 
our  lips  merely  met,  and  it  was  but  the  ghost  of  that 
former  touch.  The  beautiful,  sublime,  divine  kiss,  the 
one  and  only  true  kiss  I  have  ever  given  and  received 
in  my  life,  had  flown  forever.  Since  that  day  I  have 
always  returned  from  that  wood  with  a  deep,  inexpres- 
sible sorrow  within  me.      Rosette,  gay  and  light-minded 

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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

though  she  usually  is,  cannot  escape  the  same  feeling, 
and  her  thoughtfulness  expresses  itself  by  a  delicate 
little  pout  as   pretty   as   her  smile. 

Scarce  anything  but  the  fumes  of  wine  and  the 
brilliant  light  of  the  tapers  can  then  draw  me  from  my 
melancholy.  We  both  drink  like  people  condemned 
to  death,  silently,  glass  after  glass,  until  we  have  swal- 
lowed the  necessary  dose.  Then  we  take  to  laugh- 
ing, and  heartily  turn  into  ridicule  what  we  call  our 
sentimentality.  We  laugh  because  we  cannot  weep. 
Ah  !   what  shall  call  up  a  tear  from  my  dried  eyes  ? 

How  comes  it  that  I  had  such  pleasure  on  that  eve- 
ning ?  It  would  be  hard  to  say.  Yet  I  was  the  same 
man,  Rosette  the  same  woman.  It  was  not  the  first 
time  either  of  us  had  ridden  out.  We  had  seen  the  sun 
set  before  then,  and  the  sight  had  not  moved  us  more 
than  a  painting  one  admires  in  proportion  to  the  splen- 
dour of  the  colouring.  There  are  many  avenues  of  elms 
and  chestnut  trees  in  the  world,  and  that  particular  one 
was  not  the  first  we  had  traversed.  What  was  it,  then, 
that  made  us  think  it  supremely  charming,  that 
turned  the  dead  leaves  into  topazes,  the  green  ones 
into  emeralds,  that  gilded  the  flying  atoms  and  changed 
into  pearls  the  many  drops  of  water  scattered  over  the 

203 


»!/9  #A*  »fi*  #Jb*  +&*  <&»  *S*  Jt»  JL»  •*•  •*»  •«!•«£•  •«•  •=•  *s*  *s»  •*•  *s*  *"•  •»•  «*•  •9*«£* 
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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

sward,  that  transformed  into  so  sweet  a  harmony  the 
squawking  of  birdlings  and  the  sounds  of  a  bell  usually 
discordant  ?  The  air  must  have  been  full  of  very 
penetrating  poetry,  since  even  our  horses  seemed  to 
feel  it. 

Yet  nothing  could  be  simpler  or  more  pastoral :  a 
a  few  trees,  some  clouds,  five  or  six  bits  of  marjoram,  a 
woman,  and  a  sunbeam  flashing  over  it  all  like  a  golden 
chevron  on  a  coat  of  arms.  Besides,  astonishment 
and  surprise  alike  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  sensation 
I  experienced.  I  was  thoroughly  aware  of  my  identity. 
I  had  never  come  to  that  spot,  but  I  perfectly  recalled 
the  shape  of  the  leaves,  and  the  position  of  the  clouds, 
the  white  dove  flying  athwart  the  sky  in  the  same 
direction;  the  little  silver-toned  bell,  which  I  heard  for 
the  first  time,  had  often  sounded  in  my  ears,  and  its 
voice  was  that  of  an  old  friend  ;  without  ever  having 
traversed  it,  I  had  often  ridden  down  that  avenue  with 
princesses  mounted  on  unicorns  ;  my  most  voluptuous 
dreams  had  wandered  there  at  nightfall,  and  my  desires 
had  exchanged  kisses  identical  with  that  exchanged  by 
Rosette  and  me.  That  kiss  was  no  new  thing  to  me; 
it  was  such  as  I  had  thought  it  would  be.  That  was 
perhaps  the   one   occasion   in   my  life  on  which   I  was 

204 


•J*  •*»  #*•  #J/«  «X»  #4*  »1*  JL«  «JU  •*•  «JU  Jl«»i»  •#•  **•  •*•  «JU  #!•  JU  •§•  #*»  «&+  •!•  **• 

WSU  vn*    •*•    •**    •*»    •*•    in    «r>    «*F»    «T>    •»•    m*  •*<•  **'*  •»•  •""•  «•<•  "**  •**  "»*  •"•»    *■»•   **•  •"»• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

not  disappointed,  and  on  which  reality  equalled  ideality 
in  beauty.  If  I  could  come  across  a  woman,  a  land- 
scape, an  architecture,  anything  that  corresponded  as 
perfectly  with  my  innate  desire  as  did  that  moment  to 
the  moment  I  had  dreamed  of,  the  gods  would  have 
nothing  for  me  to  envy,  and  I  would  gladly  give  up  my 
stall  in  Paradise.  But  I  do  not  believe  that  a  man  of 
flesh  and  blood  could  stand  for  an  hour  such  penetrat- 
ing voluptuousness ;  two  such  kisses  would  drain  away 
a  whole  life  and  would  wholly  exhaust  body  and  soul. 
This  would  not  stop  me,  for,  being  unable  to  in- 
definitely prolong  my  life,  I  care  little  about  death, 
and  would  rather  die  of  pleasure  than  of  weariness  or 
old  age. 

But  the  woman  does  not  exist !  Nay,  she  does 
exist,  and  perchance  but  a  thin  partition  separates  us. 
It  may  be  that  we  rubbed  elbows  yesterday  or  to-day. 

What  does  Rosette  lack  of  being  that  woman  ? 
Merely  belief  on  my  part.  Why,  then,  must  I  always 
have  for  mistresses  women  whom  I  love  not?  Her 
neck  is  polished  enough  to  set  off  the  most  perfectly 
wrought  necklaces  ;  her  fingers  are  tapered  enough  to 
do  honour  to  the  handsomest  and  costliest  rings  ;  a  ruby 
would  flame  with  pleasure  at  gleaming  on  the  tip  of  her 

205 


*i*«|**i*  •*•  «4*  «1*  jJ/»  rl/*  *&»  #1*  »^«i?#i*cA*^eJU»l*  •§*»§•  #**#*»  •*■•  •*••*• 
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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

delicate  ear  \  the  girdle  of  Venus  would  fit  her  waist, 
but  Love  alone   can   tie  its  mother's  girdle. 

Whatever  merit  Rosette  possesses  is  her  very  own; 
I  have  not  added  any  to  it.  I  have  not  cast  over  her 
beauty  that  veil  of  perfection  that  love  wraps  around 
the  beloved.  The  veil  of  Isis  is  transparent  by 
comparison  with  that  one ;  satiety  alone  can  lift  the 
corner  of  it. 

I  do  not  love  Rosette.  At  least,  the  love  I  feel  for 
her,  if  I  do  feel  any,  in  no  wise  resembles  my  concep- 
tion of  love.  But  it  may  be  that  my  conception  is  a 
mistaken  one.  I  dare  not  venture  to  decide.  The 
fact  remains  that  she  renders  me  insensible  to  the  merit 
of  other  women,  and  that  I  have  desired  no  one  with 
any  persistency  since  I  possess  her.  If  she  has  to  be 
jealous,  it  can  be  of  phantasms  only,  for  which  she 
cares  very  little,  although  my  imagination  is  her  most 
formidable  rival  \  but  that  is  something  which,  clever 
as  she  is,  she  will  probably  never  find  out. 

If  women  only  knew!  How  often  is  the  most 
steadfast  of  lovers  unfaithful  to  the  most  loved  of  mis- 
tresses !  I  suppose  women  treat  us  the  same  way,  and 
even  worse,  but  like  ourselves  they  say  nothing  about 
it.      A   mistress    is    like   an    unavoidable   theme  which 

206 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

soon  disappears  under  embellishments  and  fiorituru 
The  kisses  showered  upon  her  are  often  not  meant  for 
her ;  it  is  the  image  of  another  woman  that  is  kissed  in 
her  person,  and  she  more  than  once  profits  (if  profit  it 
may  be  called)  by  the  desires  that  another  has  excited. 
How  often,  poor  Rosette,  have  you  been  used  to  in- 
carnate my  fancies  and  to  make  your  rivals  real ;  how 
often  have  you  been  the  unwitting  accomplice  of  my 
infidelities  !  Could  you  have  believed,  when  your 
arms  clasped  me  most  closely,  when  my  lips  pressed 
yours  most  eagerly,  that  your  beauty  and  your  love  had 
nothing  to  do  with  these  things  and  that  I  was  thinking 
of  any  one  but  you  ?  —  that  those  eyes,  veiled  in  amo- 
rous  languor,  looked  down  only  that  they  might  not 
see  you  and  thus  destroy  the  illusion  which  you  merely 
served  to  complete,  and  that,  instead  of  being  my  mis- 
tress, you  were  but  an  instrument  of  lustfulness,  a 
,  means  whereby  I  deceived  a  desire  that  could  not  be 
gratified  ? 

O  divine  ones,  O  ye  fair,  delicate,  diaphanous  vir- 
gins who  from  the  golden  backgrounds  of  the  paintings 
of  the  old  German  masters  look  down  with  your  violet 
eyes  and  clasp  your  lily  hands,  saints  of  the  stained- 
glass  windows,  martyrs   of  the   missals   who    smile   so 


207 


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«"v»  vw*    ,*v    vjw    •**    «*•    •*%    «r*    •*•    «•«*•*»»  «r*  •*<•  •*<•  «»  **•  m  «r»  •*«•  «*w   «w   «i 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPI1 

softly  from  amid  the  sweep  of  the  arabesques,  and  who 
spring  so  fair  and  so  fresh  from  the  bosom  of  the 
flowers  !  —  O  ye  beauteous  courtesans  lying  nude  in 
the  mantle  of  your  hair  on  rose-strewn  couches, 
under  great  crimson  curtains,  with  your  bracelets 
and  necklaces  of  large  pearls,  your  fans  and  your 
mirrors  from  which  the  setting  sun  calls  out,  from 
the  shadow,  a  dazzling  flash ;  brown-skinned  daugh- 
ters of  Titian,  who  exhibit  so  voluptuously  your 
rounded  hips,  your  firm-fleshed  thighs,  your  polished 
navels,  and  your  strong  and  supple  backs!  deities  of 
antiquity,  whose  white  forms  show  against  the  foliage 
of  the  garden,  —  you  all  form  part  of  my  harem ; 
I  have  enjoyed  each  of  you  in  turn.  It  was  your 
hands  I  kissed,  Saint  Ursula,  when  I  kissed  Rosette's 
fair  hands ;  never  did  Rosette  have  so  much  trouble  in 
dressing  her  hair  again  as  when  I  toyed  with  Muran- 
esa's  dark  locks ;  I  have  been  with  thee,  O  chaste 
Diana,  more  than  Acteon,  and  have  not  been  changed 
into  a  stag ;  I  took  the  place  of  thy  beautiful  Endy- 
mion.  Numerous  indeed  are  the  rivals  whom  one  does 
not  mistrust,  and  on  whom  one  cannot  be  revenged  — 
and  they  are  not  always  painted  or  carved  either! 

When  you   see  your  lover  more  tender  than  usual 

208 


It*  *%•  •»•  •«;*  *9t*  •a*  *fr»  ***  •»•  •x*  •£••**  •*•  •<§•  •*•  »*»  •!*  »*•  •»•  •§•  •»•  •!•  •»• 

»       v»    *tn»    «»v.    *v*     wfv*    wrw     •»»     «wt»     «.t»    *•>•    «r«   w»   %T»  vr*   «n    •*«   %/r«   *<*»   «*<•   »r<»    *r#    vr»  vrm 

IADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

0  women,  when  he  clasps  you  with  extraordinary 
feeling,  when  he  hides  his  face  in  your  lap  and  then 
looks  up  at  you  with  wandering  glance  ;  when  enjoy- 
ment merely  increases  his  desire  and  his  kisses  still 
your  voice  as  though  he  feared  to  hear  it,  you  may  be 
sure  he  does  not  even  know  you  are  there;  that  he  is, 
at  that  moment,  with  a  chimera  which  you  have  made 
tangible  and  whose  part  you  are  playing.  Many  a 
chambermaid  has  profited  by  a  passion  that  a  queen 
had  inspired  ;  many  a  woman,  by  a  love  for  a  goddess ; 
and  vulgar  reality  has  often  served  as  a  pedestal  for  the 
ideal  idol.  That  is  why  poets'  mistresses  are  usually 
slovenly  trollops.  You  may  sleep  ten  years  with  a 
woman  without  ever  having  seen  her,  and  such  is  the 
story  of  many  great  geniuses  whose  ignoble  or  obscure 
connections  have  amazed  the  world. 

This  is  the  only  way  in  which  I  have  been   unfaith- 
ful to  Rosette;   it  is  only  for  statues  and  paintings  that 

1  have  betrayed  her,  and  she  had  her  full  share  of  the 
betrayal.  I  have  not  the  least  material  sin  on  my 
conscience;  I  am,  so  far  as  that  goes,  as  pure  as  the 
snow  on  the  Jungfrau,  and  yet,  though  I  am  not  in  love 
with  any  one,  I  would  like  to  be  so.  I  neither  seek  an 
opportunity  nor  would  I  regret   its  coming.      If  it  did 

vol.  i  —  14  209 


•i*«|*  *l*  #JU  *!•  •§»  •*•  **»  *§•  •4»«§*«i^#lf»*^»i^  •§••*•  •§••§•  •§••§•  •!•  •£*«!« 

«n  •/»*    mm    •**    •%    •>«•    •*>»    •«•    **U    •»•    «*•    *9»  wr«  •*•  •"»•  •»«•   •**«  vms  *r«  *<t«.  «r*   «*•  W»»  WS* 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

come,  I  might  not  turn  it  to  account,  for  I  am  firmly 
convinced  that  things  would  be  just  the  same  with 
another  woman,  and  I  had  rather  things  were  as  they 
are  with  Rosette ;  for,  even  putting  aside  the  woman,  I 
have  at  least  in  her  a  lovely  companion,  —  very  clever 
and  most  charmingly  corrupt.  This  fact  is  one  of  the 
most  potent  factors  which  keep  me  back,  for  in  losing 
the  mistress  I  should  be  grieved  to  lose  the  friend. 


210 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

•J/*  **»  «£»  rJ/*  #A*  »&»  *if 

V»\<     «/*#      »TS»      VfV»       afli*        »T*       •% 

JL  ♦&•  •!»  *4»  •!»•*»  *l^  •*-»  •!»  *i%  ei*  *|»  *i»  JU  «i»  JU  «|» 

•^»    «*•    •**    •*»    •»•  **»  *«r»  •>•«•  «*«  •*.  u«  vS.  «7«  •«•   j?«  •*•  »S» 

IV 

DO  you  know  that  for  some  five  months,  yes, 
fully  five  months,  five  eternities,  I  have  beer*, 
the  acknowledged  lover  of  Mistress  Rosette  I 
I  never  thought  I  could  be  constant  so  long,  and  she 
did  not  think  she  could  be  either,  I  dare  swear.  We 
are  really  a  pair  of  plucked  pigeons,  for  it  is  only  turtle- 
doves that  are  capable  of  such  affection.  How  we 
have  cooed  and  kissed  !  how  we  have  elapsed  each 
other !  how  we  have  lived  the  one  for  the  other ! 
Nothing  could  be  more  touching,  and  our  two  dear 
little  hearts  might  have  been  put  on  top  of  the  same 
time-piece,  transpierced  by  the  same  spit,  with  a  twist- 
ing flame  above. 

Five  months  alone  together,  as  it  were,  for  we  meet 
every  day  and  almost  every  night,  and  no  one  admitted. 
Is  it  not  enough  to  make  one  shudder  ?  Well,  to  the 
glory  of  the  incomparable  Rosette  be  it  said,  I  have  not 
been  greatly  bored,  and  I  have  no  doubt  it  has  been  the 
pleasantest  part  of  my  life.  I  do  not  believe  it  is  pos- 
sible to  occupy  more  regularly  and  more  amusingly  a 
passionless  man,  and  Heaven   knows  how  great  is  the 

211 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

weariness  that  follows  upon  an  empty  heart.  You 
cannot  have  an  idea  of  that  woman's  resources.  She 
drew  them  first  from  her  mind,  then  from  her  heart, 
for  she  fairly  worships  me.  How  cleverly  she  turns  to 
account  the  least  spark,  and  blows  it  into  a  conflagration  ! 
How  skilfully  she  directs  the  least  motions  of  my  soul, 
turns  languor  to  tender  dreaming,  and  brings  back,  by 
a  thousand  devious  ways,  the  mind  that  was  wandering 
away  from  her.  It  is  marvellous,  and  I  admire  her  as 
one  of  the  greatest  living  geniuses. 

I  came  to  her  very  much  out  of  temper,  angry  and 
looking  for  a  quarrel.  I  do-  not  know  how  the  witch 
set  about  it,  but  in  a  few  minutes  she  had  made  me 
pay  her  compliments,  though  I  did  not  want  to  do  so, 
and  kiss  her  hands  and  laugh  heartily,  though  I  was 
horribly  wrathy.  Can  you  imagine  such  tyranny  ?  Yet, 
clever  as  she  is,  our  tite-a-tete  cannot  be  long  prolonged, 
and  during  the  past  fortnight  I  have  several  times  done 
what  I  had  never  done  before,  —  opened  some  of  the 
books  on  the  table  and  read  a  few  lines  during  the 
pauses  in  the  conversation.  Rosette  noticed  it;  it 
aroused  in  her  a  fear  she  found  it  difficult  to  conceal, 
and  she  caused  all  the  books  to  be  carried  away.  I  own 
to  regretting  them,  though  I  dare  not  venture  to  ask  for 

212 


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»**  •-«*    **n»    •*•    •*»     at*    Mt    •»•     ww«    ••*    •*•    ««•  •#•  «T*  «r*  •"*   *"*•  vr*  «rw  •»«•  «*•    mm    •*•  •*• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

their  return.  The  other  day  —  dreadful  symptom  !  — 
some  one  called  while  we  were  together,  and  instead  of 
raging  as  I  used  to  do  at  first,  I  experienced  a  sort  of 
joy.  I  was  almost  amiable ;  Rosette  was  trying  to  let 
the  talk  come  to  an  end,  so  that  the  visitor  would  go 
away,  and  I  kept  it  up.  When  he  was  gone  I  hap- 
pened to  say  that  he  was  rather  clever,  and  that  his  com- 
pany was  pleasant.  Rosette  reminded  me  that  two 
months  ago  I  had  thought  it  particularly  stupid  and  the 
greatest  bore  on  earth,  to  which  I  could  not  reply,  for  it 
was  true  I  had  said  it.  Yet  I  was  right,  in  spite  of  the 
apparent  contradiction,  for  the  first  time  he  had  broken 
in  upon' a  delightful  tete-a-tete,  and  the  second  time  he 
dropped  into  a  conversation  that  was  exhausted  and  lan- 
guishing (on  one  side  at  least),  and  saved  me,  for  that  day, 
the  performance  of  a  rather  troublesome  love-scene. 

That  is  our  position  at  present ;  it  is  serious,  espe- 
cially as  one  of  us  is  still  in  love  and  clings  desperately 
to  what  is  left  of  the  other's  passion.  I  am  much  per- 
plexed, for  although  I  do  not  love  Rosette  I  am  very 
fond  of  her,  and  would  not  for  worlds  give  her  pain.  I 
want  to  make  her  believe  as  long  as  possible  that  I  love 
her.  I  mean  to  do  this  in  return  for  the  many  hours 
to  which  she  lent  wings,  in  return  for  the  love  she  gave 

213 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

in  exchange  for  pleasure.      I   shall  deceive  her,  but  is 

not   pleasant   deceit  preferable  to   sad   truth  ?     Never 

• 

shall  I  have  the  heart  to  tell  her  I  do  not  love  her. 
The  vain  shadow  of  love  on  which  she  feeds  seems  to 
her  so  adorable,  so  dear  ;  she  clasps  that  pale  spectre 
with  such  intoxication  of  delight  that  I  dare  not  dis- 
pel the  illusion ;  and  yet  I  fear  she  will  end  by  per- 
ceiving that  it  is  nothing,  after  all,  but  a  phantasm. 
We  had  a  talk  this  morning  which  I  shall  reproduce 
in  its  dramatic  form,  for  the  sake  of  greater  accuracy. 
I<:  makes  me  fear  that  the  ties  which  bind  us  at  present 
will  not  do  so  much  longer. 

The  scene  is  Rosette's  bed.  A  sunbeam  shines  i 
through  the  curtains ;  it  is  ten  o'clock.  Rosette's  arm 
is  under  my  neck,  and  she  does  not  move,  for  fear  o 
waking  me.  At  times  she  leans  on  her  elbow  and 
bends  her  face  above  mine,  while  holding  her  breath 
I  can  see  all  this  through  my  half-closed  eyes,  for  I 
have  not  slept  for  an  hour  past.  The  Malines  lac 
round  the  neck  of  Rosette's  nightgown  is  all  torn ;  th 
night  has  been  stormy;  her  hair  escapes  at  random 
from  under  her  little  cap.  She  is  as  pretty  as  it  i 
possible  for  a  woman  to  be  whom  one  does  not  lov 
and  whose  bed  one  shares. 

214 


•&•  «§«  #i*  «J*  «§*  ju  «|«4r*  •!•  •!••§•  4§»«I»«l#«i*«I««I»«l«  •!••!•  •!•  «t*  «!••!• 

••w  •/»*•    «*w    ««<•    »r*     •<*•    »tv.     «r»     mu    «pe    enr*    *t»  •*<•  *r»  •"•<•  •*•  wvw  vtv  •*»   *^»  ««r*    «*»   we#  e« 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

Rosette  (seeing  that  I  am  awake).  Oh,  you  naughty 
sleeper ! 

/  (yawning).      Ha-a-a  ! 

Rosette.  Don't  yawn  like  that,  or  I  shall  not  kiss 
you  for  a  week. 

/.     Ouf! 

Rosette.  Apparently  you  do  not  much  care  whether 
I  kiss  you  or  not. 

/.      Yes,  I  do. 

Rosette.  One  would  not  think  so  to  hear  you.  All 
right ;  for  the  next  week  you  may  be  sure  I  shall  not 
kiss  you  once.  This  is  Tuesday, —  well,  not  again, 
before  next  Tuesday. 

/.      Bah ! 

Rosette.      What  do  you  mean  by  "  bah  !  "  ? 

/.  I  mean  bah  !  On  my  life,  you  shall  kiss  me 
before  night. 

Rosette.  On  your  life  !  How  conceited  you  are.  I 
have  spoiled  you,  sir. 

/.  I  shall  live.  I  am  not  conceited,  and  you  have 
not  spoiled  me ;  on  the  contrary.  First,  I  want  you 
to  drop  the  "  sir."  I  know  you  well  enough  to  be 
called  by  my  name. 

Rosette.    I  have  spoiled  you,  d'Albert  ! 

215 


«A»*a*  #1*  eJU  *§%  «^*  •*'•  •$:•  •**  •*»  *&»«s»*l»«I* •*••*»  •**>  •**•!»  •!••§•  •*•  •a*H* 

*ff»    a/«V»    *V»     •»*•     WW      «N     «r*     *T»      ««w     »S<#     %*•     «*•   VJ<»    •»!"•   •*»"•   «**•    •*•   **>•    •*<•    •*•    •»•     a*M    «*•  *"»<• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

/.    That 's  right.      Now  your  lips. 

Rosette.    No  j   not  till  Tuesday  next. 

/.  Nonsense.  Are  we  going  to  time  our  caresses 
with  a  calendar;  we  are  too  young  for  that  sort  of 
thing.  Now  your  lips,  princess  mine,  or  I  shall  have 
a  crick  in  the  neck. 

Rosette.    No,  I  will  not. 

I.  Ah  !  you  want  me  to  force  you,  my  pet.  Very 
well ;  forced  you  shall  be.  It  is  possible  to  do  so, 
although   it  may  not  have  been  done  yet. 

Rosette.    You  are  rude. 

/.  Pray  mark,  my  beauty,  that  I  honoured  you 
with  a  "  perhaps,"  which  was  very  nice  of  me.  But 
we  are  straying  from  the  point.  Bend  down  your 
head.  Come,  come;  what  is  the  matter,  O  favourite 
sultana  mine  ?  What  a  grumpy  look  we  have  put  on ! 
It  is  a  smile,  and  not  an  angry  pout  I  want  to  kiss. 

Rosette  (bending  down  to  kiss  me).  I  cannot 
smile  ;  you  say  such  harsh  things  to  me. 

/.  I  mean  to  say  very  tender  things.  Why  should 
I  say  harsh  ones  to  you  ? 

Rosette.    I  don't  know,  but  you  do. 

/.    You  mistake  meaningless  jokes  for  harshness. 

Rosette.    Meaningless  !    You  call  them  meaningless  ? 

216 


•A*  #4*  #4*  *4*  *^*  *4*  *A*  *A»  »A*  «4*  #l*^*|*«4***»«4*  •*»•«•  »!•♦*•  *J*  <•*•  ♦|*»|« 

^*  •/*#    »*v»    •*»    «tm    vm    «*•    «r»    **»    •**•    •»»    •*•  •**  **•  «^»  **»  m«  «^»»  *r»  •*»>•  •▼*    •*•  *»»•  *^» 

MADEMOISELLE     DE     MAUPIN 

Nothing  is  meaningless  in  love.  I  had  rather  you 
beat  me  than  laugh  the  way  you  do. 

/.    So  you  would  like  to  see  me  weep  ? 

Rosette.  You  always  go  to  extremes.  I  do  not 
want  you  to  weep,  but  I  do  want  you  to  talk  sense 
and  to  drop  that  sarcastic  tone  of  yours,  which  does 
not  become  you  at  all. 

/.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  talk  sense  and  not  to 
be  sarcastic  y  so  I  shall  beat  you,  since  that  is  to  your 
taste. 

Rosette.    Go  on. 

/  (gently  patting  her  on  the  shoulders).  I  would 
rather  cut  off  my  own  head  than  spoil  that  adorable 
little  body  of  yours  and  mar  with  blue  bruises  the 
whiteness  of  your  lovely  back.  However  pleasant  it 
may  be  for  a  woman  to  be  beaten,  you,  my  goddess, 
shall  not  be. 

Rosette.    You  do  not  love  me  any  more. 

/.  That  does  not  follow  very  directly  from  what 
you  have  just  said.  It  is  about  as  illogical  as  if  I  said, 
"  It  is  raining,  I  do  not  want  my  umbrella ;  "  or,  "  It 
is  cold,  open  the  window." 

Rosette.  You  do  not  love  me,  and  you  have  never 
loved  me. 

217 


•9**4**4*  *4*  *4*  *4*  *«•  *4*  *4*  »A»  •4»*4»*«**4**4**A*»4»e*»*4**4**4*  *4*  *4**l* 

wrt«  «nv»   «*v   vn   «^«    *>*%#    m    «r»    •*•    *?•    •**    •»•  **•  mt«  •*<•  •«*>  *»•  «**  «r*  *r*  •*•*   **•  ~r*  »*• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

/.  Ah  !  matters  are  getting  complicated  ;  "  you  do 
not  love  me,  and  you  have  never  loved  me."  That  is 
pretty  contradictory,  for  how  can  I  cease  doing  some- 
thing I  never  began  doing  ?  You  see,  my  queen,  that 
you  do  not  know  what  you  are  talking  about,  and  that 
you  are  perfectly  absurd. 

Rosette.  I  so  dearly  wish  to  be  loved  by  you  that 
I  have  helped  to  deceive  myself.  One  believes  so 
easily  in  what  one  wishes.  You,  too,  have  deceived 
yourself;  you  mistook  fancy  for  love,  and  desire  for 
passion.  That  sort  of  thing  happens  every  day.  I 
am  not  angry  with  you  on  that  account ;  it  was  not 
your  fault  that  you  were  not  in  love;  the  fault 
lies  with  my  scanty  charms.  I  ought  to  have  been 
lovelier,  more  playful,  more  coquettish ;  I  ought  to 
have  striven  to  rise  to  your  level,  O  my  poet,  instead 
of  trying  to  make  you  come  down  to  mine.  I  was 
afraid  of  losing  you  among  the  clouds,  and  of  your 
head  taking  your  heart  from  me.  I  made  of  my 
love  a  prison  for  you,  and  thought  that  when  I  gave  - 
myself  unreservedly  to  you,  you  would  keep  some 
particle  of  that    love. 

/.  Rosette,  move  away  a  little  ;  your  leg  burns  me ; 
you  are  like  a  live  coal. 

218 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

Rosette.  If  I  am  in  your  way,  I  shall  get  up.  You 
are  stony-hearted ;  the  drops  of  water  wear  away  the 
rock,  but  my  tears  have  no  effect  on  you.  (She 
weeps.) 

/.  If  you  cry  like  that  you  will  make  a  bath-tub  of 
the  bed,  or  rather  an  ocean.     Can  you  swim,  Rosette  ? 

Rosette.    You  wretch  ! 

/.  Good  !  I  am  a  wretch  now.  You  flatter  me, 
Rosette ;  I  have  not  that  honour ;  I  am  a  peaceful 
citizen,  alas  !  and  have  not  committed  the  smallest 
crime;  I  may  have  committed  a  blunder  —  that  of 
loving  you  passionately,  that  is  all.  Do  you  insist  on 
my  repenting  of  it?  I  have  loved  you  —  I  love  you 
as  much  as  I  can.  Since  I  have  been  your  lover  I 
have  clung  to  your  footsteps  \  I  have  given  you  my 
whole  time,  my  days  and  my  nights.  I  have  not  used 
fine  language  to  you,  because  I  like  it  in  print  only, 
but  I  have  given  you  many  a  proof  of  my  affection.  I 
shall  say  nothing  of  my  scrupulous  fidelity  —  that  is  a 
matter  of  course.  Finally  I  have  lost  nearly  two  pounds 
in  weight  since  you  became  my  mistress.  What  more 
do  you  want  ?  Here  I  am  in  your  bed  ;  I  was  in  it 
yesterday,  I.  shall  be  in  it  to-morrow.  Does  one  do 
that  with  people  one  does  not  care  for  ?      I  do  every- 

219 


#1**&*  JL  *&%  «X»  #1*  •!/»  rl/»  «4*  *l*«i^«i?  #§••!«  •!«•£••£«  •§••§«  #£»»•»  •§•  •§••!• 

«•*#  «w»   •«*   cw   *tU    vim    m    «r*    «tw    w    *a*    wf  *r#  «r»  «r»  •"•  *»•  «*#  «cw  •*•  **»   «*»  **•  «m 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

thing  you  tell  me  to  do.  You  say  to  me,"  Go,"  and  I 
go  ;  "  Stay,"  and  I  stay  ;  I  am  the  best  lover  on  earth, 
it  seems  to  me. 

Rosette.  That  is  exactly  what  I  complain  of  —  you 
are  the  most  perfect   lover  on  earth. 

/.    What  have  you  to  reproach  me  with  ? 

Rosette.  Nothing  ;  I  had  rather  have  something  to 
complain  of. 

I.    That 's  a  queer  quarrel ! 

Rosette.  It  is  worse.  You  do  not  love  me.  I  can- 
not help  it,  nor  can  you.  What  are  we  going  to  do 
about  it  ?  I  would  a  good  deal  rather  have  to  forgive 
you  something.  I  would  scold  you,  you  would  excuse 
yourself  to  the  best  of  your  ability,  and  we  would  make 
it  up  somehow. 

/.  All  the  profit  would  be  for  you.  The  greater  the 
crime,  the  greater  the  reparation. 

Rosette.  You  know  very  well,  sir,  that  I  am  not 
yet  reduced  to  that  resource,  and  that  if  I  only  cared 
to,  even  though  you  do  not  love  me  and  we  are 
quarrelling  .   .   . 

/.  Yes ;  I  confess  that  it  is  wholly  the  result  of 
your  clemency  ...  so  do  care  to ;  it  would  be  better 
than  heaping  up  syllogisms  as  we  are  doing. 

220 


»l*4k  ri*  JU  •!/•  JU  •!/•  #!/»  *l~  ^•JU«i*«i^«^«l«r|*#:i»«|^#|*<4*«>l«  *l»  •*•«!• 

•*•   •*«•    •«•«•    «<•    «w     m    «m     «^»     «3.     «!S»    •»•    •*•  •>•<•   •*<•   •""•  •""•    «^»  **•   -^   •*•   *»•    •"•    ■*•  •**• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

Rosette.  You  want  to  break  off  a  conversation  which 
embarrasses  you  ;  but,  my  fine  fellow,  we  shall,  if  you 
please,  be  satisfied  with  talking. 

/.  Not  a  very  costly  entertainment.  You  are 
wrong,  I  assure  you,  for  you  are  as  pretty  as  pretty 
can   be,  and   I   feel  towards  you   .   .   . 

Rosette.    What  you  can  express  some  other  time. 

/.  I  say,  my  beauty,  you  are  a  veritable  Hyrcanian 
tigress  !  Your  cruelty  this  morning  is  unexampled. 
Have  you  thought  perchance  of  turning  vestal  ?  It 
would  be  a  funny   notion. 

Rosette.  Why  should  it  be  ?  There  are  funnier 
notions  than  that,  but  you  may  be  sure  I  shall  be 
a  vestal  to  you.  Learn,  sir,  that  I  give  myself  to 
those  only  who  love  me  or  who  I  think  love  me. 
You  do  not  belong  to  either  class.  Please  let  me 
get  up. 

/.  If  you  get  up,  I  shall  get  up  also.  You  will 
just  give  yourself  the  trouble  of  going  back  to  bed, 
that's  all. 

Rosette.    Let  me  alone  ! 

/.    I  '11  be  hanged  if  I  do. 

Rosette    (struggling).      You  shall  let  me  go  ! 

/.    I  venture,  madam,  to  affirm  the  contrary. 

221 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

Rosette  (seeing  she  is  the  weaker).  Well,  I  '11  stop, 
but  you  hurt  my  arm  so.      What  do  you  want  of  me  ? 

/.  You  know  very  well.  I  shall  not  allow  myself 
to  say  what  I  allow  myself  to  do ;  I  have  too  much 
respect  for  decency. 

Rosette  (already  unable  to  defend  herself).  If  you 
will  promise  to  love  me  dearly   .   .   .     Then  I  give  in. 

/.  It  is  rather  late  to  give  in.  The  enemy  has 
already  entered. 

Rosette  (throwing  her  arms  around  me  and  half 
fainting).  Unconditionally,  then  ...  I  trust  to  your 
generosity. 

/.    You  are  right. 

Here,  my  dear  friend,  I  think  it  is  better  to  put 
a  line  of  full  stops,  for  the  remainder  of  the  dialogue 
can  scarcely  be  expressed  save  by  onomatopoeia. 

Since  the  beginning  of  this  scene,  the  sunbeam  has 
had  time  to  travel  round  the  room.  The  suave,  pene- 
trating scent  of  the  limes  is  wafted  in  from  the  garden. 
The  weather  is  exquisitely  beautiful ;  the  sky  as  blue 
as  an  English  girl's  eyes.  We  rise,  and,  after  break- 
fasting with  an  excellent  appetite,  we  take  a  long  walk 
through    the    fields.       The   clearness    of   the    air,    the 

222 


•J*  JU  #JU  #JL  rl-»  #£*  •!/•  #1*  #&%  •£•  JU  ^l**-!-*  #1*  «4*  •!•  *l*  «4«  «^»  «4*  #1*  JU  #1*  «i* 

•w»   •/*•    «*v»    •>**     «r»     »r*     «M     «t»     Wf»     •*•     •»•     •*•  wim    wi»    •»«•   ww    **<*   «-w*    mw    ~r«    m.     v»    wp»  «£« 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

beauty  of  the  country,  and  the  sight  of  that  joyous 
nature  fill  me  with  sentimentality  and  tenderness 
enough  to  cause  Rosette  to  confess  that,  after  all,  I 
do  have  some  sort  of  a  heart,  just  like  anybody  else. 

Have  you  ever  noticed  the  secret  and  irresistible  in- 
fluence exercised  upon  us,  however  depraved  we  may 
be  and  however  much  we  may  make  fun  of  it,  by  the 
stock  in  trade  of  the  eclogue  and  of  descriptive  writ- 
ing,—  the  murmur  of  brooks,  the  song  of  birds,  fair 
prospects,  the  scent  of  leaves  and  flowers  ?  I  confess, 
under  the  seal  of  the  deepest  secrecy,  to  having  quite 
recently  caught  myself  listening,  with  the  most  pro- 
vincial emotion,  to  the  warbling  of  a  nightingale.     It  was 

in  's  garden  ;   although  it  was  quite  dark,  the  sky 

was  as  luminous  almost  as  on  a  very  fine  day,  so  deep 
and  so  transparent  that  man's  glance  easily  reached  God. 
The  disappearing  folds  of  the  angels'  robes  seemed  to 
me  to  flutter  on  the  white  windings  of  the  Milky  Way. 
The  moon  had  risen,  but  a  great  tree  concealed  it  en- 
tirely y  it  filled  its  dark  foliage  with  countless  little 
luminous  spots,  and  covered  it  with  more  spangles  than 
ever  were  seen  on  a  marchioness's  fan.  A  silence  full 
of  soft  sounds  and  stifled  sighs  was  audible  through  the 
garden    (this    appears  to  be   bathos,  but   it   is   not   my 

223 


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»r»  ♦/«#    «ir«    vr*    «*(•    *«•    «*£»     •v*     «*•    «r»    •*»    •"•  *T*  *»v»  •<■<•  **»  vtw  «,*#  «?«  •*»»*  vs*    aw*   «$*  v*j 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

fault);  although  I  saw  but' the  bluish  beams  of  the 
moon,  I  seemed  to  be  surrounded  by  a  host  of  unknown 
yet  beloved  phantoms,  and  I  did  not  feel  alone,  though 
there  was  no  one  but  myself  on  the  terrace.  I  neither 
thought  nor  dreamed;  I  was  lost  in  surrounding  nature ; 
I  trembled  with  the  leaves,  gleamed  like  the  water, 
shone  as  the  beams,  bloomed  as  the  flower;  I  was  as 
much  tree,  water,  or  night-shade  as  myself.  I  was  one 
and  all  of  these,  and  I  do  not  believe  it  is  possible  to 
separate  one's  self  more  from  self  than  I  was  at  that 
moment.  Suddenly,  as  if  something  extraordinary  were 
going  to  happen,  the  leaf  on  the  branch  was  stilled,  the 
drop  of  water  of  the  fountain  remained  suspended  in 
mid-air  and  fell  not ;  the  silver  beam  of  the  moon 
reached  me  not ;  my  heart  alone  beat  so  loud  that  it 
seemed  to  fill  with  sound  that  great  space.  It  ceased 
beating,  and  so  deep  a  silence  fell  that  one  could  have 
heard  the  grass  grow  and  a  word  uttered  six  hundred 
miles  away.  Then  the  nightingale,  which  had  probably 
waited  for  this  moment  to  begin  its  song,  sent  forth 
from  its  tiny  throat  so  piercing  and  so  high  a  note  that  I 
heard  as  much  through  my  breast  as  with  my  ears.  The 
sound  spread  suddenly  through  the  crystal  heaven,  void 
of  sound,  and  filled  it  with  a  harmonious  atmosphere, 

224 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

in  which  the  succeeding  notes  flew  about  fluttering 
their  wings.  I  understood  the  song  as  well  as  if  I  had 
the  secret  of  bird  speech.  That  nightingale  sang  the 
story  of  the  loves  I  have  never  known,  and  never  was 
story  more  accurate  and  true.  Not  the  smallest  de- 
tail, not  the  least  gradation  was  omitted.  It  told  me 
what  I  had  not  been  able  to  say  to  myself;  it  explained 
what  I  had  failed  to  understand,  gave  to  my  dreams  a 
voice,  and  brought  a  reply  from  the  vision  hitherto  mute. 
I  knew  I  was  beloved,  and  the  most  languorously  pearly 
trill  told  me  I  would  soon  be  happy.  The  white  arms 
of  my  love  seemed,  in  the  shower  of  notes  and  the  trills 
of  the  song,  to  stretch  towards  me  in  a  moonbeam. 
She  slowly  rose  before  me  with  the  perfume  of  the 
heart  of  a  great  rose.  I  shall  attempt  no  description 
of  her  beauty ;  there  are  things  which  words  cannot 
render.  How  shall  one  express  the  inexpressible  ;  paint 
that  which  has  neither  form  nor  colour;  note  a  toneless, 
wordless  voice  ?  Never  was  my  heart  so  suffused  with 
love.  I  would  have  clasped  Nature  herself  to  my 
breast ;  I  pressed  the  void  in  my  arms  as  if  they  were 
wound  round  a  maiden's  form  ;  I  kissed  the  air  that 
touched  my  lips ;  I  was  lost  in  the  emanations  of  my 
radiant   frame.      Ah  !   if  only  Rosette  had  been  there  ! 

vol.  i  —  15  225 


MADEMOISELLE     DE    MAUPIN 

What  splendid  nonsense  I  should  have  talked  to  her  ! 
But  women  never  know  how  to  come  at  the  right  mo- 
ment.—  The  nightingale  ceased  its  song ;  the  moon, 
dead  sleepy,  pulled  on  its  cloud-cap,  and  I  left  the  gar- 
den, for  I  began  to  feel  the  chill  of  night. 

Feeling  cold,  I  naturally  thought  I  should  be  warmer 
in  Rosette's  bed  than  in  mine,  and  I  went  off  to  sleep 
with  her.  I  let  myself  in  with  my  pass-key,  for  every- 
body in  the  house,  even  Rosette  herself,  was  asleep, 
and  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  noting  that  she  had  dozed 
off  over  an  uncut  volume  of  verse  of  mine.  Her 
two  arms  were  rounded  above  her  head,  her  lips  half- 
opened  with  a  smile,  one  leg  stretched  out  and  the  other 
somewhat  drawn  up,  in  an  attitude  full  of  grace  and 
ease.  She  looked  so  well  that  way  that  I  was  mortally 
sorry  not  to  be  more  in  love  with  her. 

As  I  gazed  upon  her  it  struck  me  that  I  was  as  stupid 
as  an  owl.  I  had  what  I  had  so  long  desired  :  a  mis- 
tress as  much  my  own  as  my  horse  and  my  sword, 
young,  pretty,  witty,  and  in  love ;  unhampered  by  a 
strict  mother  or  a  pompous  father,  by  an  acid-tempered 
aunt,  a  swashbuckler  of  a  brother;  with  that  wondrous 
delight  of  a  husband  duly  sealed  up  and  nailed  down  in 
a  handsome  oak  coffin  with  a   leaden  one  inside,  the 

226 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

whole  business  topped  by  a  huge  dressed  stone  —  which 
is  not  to  be  sneezed  at ;  for,  after  all,  it  is  no  great  plea- 
sure to  be  caught  in  the  very  height  of  a  voluptuous 
spasm  and  to  be  compelled  to  complete  the  sensation 
on  the  street  after  having  described  an  arc  of  forty  or 
forty-five  degrees,  according  to  the  floor  on  which  one 
happens  to  be.  A  mistress  free  as  mountain  air,  and 
rich  enough  to  indulge  in  the  most  exquisite  refinement 
and  elegance ;  devoid  of  any  notion  of  morality,  and 
never  talking  about  her  virtue  v/hile  trying  a  new  pos- 
ture, or  of  her  reputation  any  more  than  if  she  had 
never  had  one,  knowing  no  woman  intimately  and  de- 
spising all  her  sex  as  heartily  as  if  she  had  been  a  man  ; 
caring  very  little  for  platonic  theories  and  saying  so, 
yet  sentimental  withal,  —  a  woman  who,  in  another 
sphere,  would  unquestionably  have  been  the  finest 
courtesan  in  the  world  and  would  have  eclipsed  the  fame 
of  Aspasia  and  Imperia. 

Now  this  woman  so  constituted  was  mine.  I  did 
what  I  pleased  with  her;  I  had  the  key  of  her  room 
and  the  key  of  her  drawers  ;  I  opened  her  letters ;  I 
had  taken  away  her  name  and  had  given  her  another. 
She  was  my  propertv,  a  thing  of  mine.  Her  youth, 
her  beauty,  her  love,  all  belonged  to  me,  and   I  used  or 

227 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

abused  them  as  I  wished.  I  made  her  go  to  bed  dur- 
ing the  day  and  sit  up  all  night,  if  I  so  fancied  ;  and 
she  obeyed  quickly,  without  seeming  to  make  a  sacrifice 
or  putting  on  the  look  of  a  victim  resigned  to  her  fate. 
She  was  attentive,  fond,  and  —  amazing  to  relate  —  ab- 
solutely faithful.  In  other  words,  if,  six  months  ago, 
at  the  time  when  I  mourned  over  having  no  mistress, 
I  had  been  promised,  even  far  off,  such  bliss,  I  should 
have  gone  crazy  with  joy  and  shied  my  hat  at  heaven 
by  way  of  manifesting  my  gratitude.  Well,  now  that  I 
do  have  that  bliss,  it  leaves  me  cold  ;  I  scarcely  feel  it. 
I  do  not  feel  it,  and  the  situation  in  which  I  am  in- 
fluences me  so  little  that  I  often  wonder  whether  it  is 
different  from  my  former  one.  I  am  absolutely  certain 
that,  were  I  to  throw  Rosette  over,  in  a  month,  in  less 
than  a  month  perhaps,  I  should  so  completely  and 
perfectly  have  forgotten  her  that  I  could  not  remember 
whether  I  had  ever  known  her  or  not.  Would  it  be 
the  same  with  her  ?      I  think  not. 

So  I  was  turning  these  things  over  in  my  mind,  and, 
moved  by  a  sort  of  feeling  of  remorse,  I  kissed  the  fair 
sleeper  on  the  brow  with  the  most  chaste  and  melancholy 
kiss  that  ever  young  fellow  bestowed  on  a  young 
woman    as    the    clock  struck    midnight.       She  moved 

228 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE     MAUPIN 

slightly  ;  the  smile  on  her  lips  became  brighter,  but  she 
did  not  wake.  I  slowly  undressed,  and,  creeping  under 
the  blankets,  I  stretched  out  by  her  side  like  an  adder 
seeking  warmth.  The  cold  touch  of  my  limbs  startled 
her ;  she  opened  her  eyes  and,  without  a  word,  pressed 
her  lips  to  mine,  and  so  wound  herself  around  me  that 
I  was  warmed  up  in  a  twinkling.  The  lyrism  of  the 
evening  turned  to  prose,  but  to  poetic  prose.  The 
night  proved  to  be  one  of  the  finest  sleepless  nights  I 
ever  spent  —  I  cannot  look  for  others  like  it. 

We  still  have  pleasant  hours,  but  they  have  to  be 
brought  about  and  prepared  by  some  such  external  cir- 
cumstance ;  while  in  the  beginning  of  our  affair  I  did 
not  need  to  work  myself  up  by  looking  at  the  moon 
and  listening  to  a  nightingale  in  order  to  enjoy  all  the 
pleasure  which  one  can  have  without  being  actually  in 
love.  The  threads  of  our  love-warp  are  not  yet 
*  broken,  but  here  and  there  are  knots,  and  the  woof  is 
not  by  a  long  way  as  smooth  as  of  yore. 

Rosette,  who  is  still  in  love,  does  her  best  to  guard 
against  these  various  disadvantages.  Unfortunately, 
there  are  two  things  in  this  world  which  cannot  be 
controlled  :  love  and  weariness.  On  my  part  I  make 
superhuman  efforts   to  overcome  the   sleepiness  which 

229 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

gains  the  upper  hand  in  spite  of  me,  and  like  the  coun- 
try bumpkins  who  fall  asleep  at  ten  'o'clock  in  a  town 
drawing-room,  I  keep  my  eyes  as  wide  open  as  possible 
and  put  back  the  eyelids  with  my  finger.  But  in  vain  ; 
I  get  into  a  free  and  easy  marital  way  which  is  most 
disgusting. 

The  dear  child,  having  found  the  bucolic  plan  useful 
the  other  day,  took  me  to  her  country  seat  yesterday. 

I  might  just  as  well  put  in  here  a  short  description 
of  that  seat,  which  is  rather  fine ;  it  will  brighten  up 
all  these  metaphysics,  and,  besides,  the  characters  need 
a  background,  and  figures  do  not  stand  out  of  emptiness 
or  that  brown,  undetermined  background  with  which 
painters  fill  in  their  canvas. 

The  approaches  are  very  picturesque.  You  reach, 
along  a  highroad  bordered  by  old  trees,  a  carfax, 
in  the  centre  of  which  rises  a  stone  obelisk  sur- 
mounted by  a  gilt  copper  ball ;  five  roads  branch  out 
from  here;  then  the  ground  suddenly  sinks  and  the 
road  plunges  into  a  rather  narrow  valley,  down  which 
flows  a  streamlet,  which  is  crossed  by  a  single-arch 
bridge.  The  road  ascends  on  the  opposite  bank,  on 
which  is  situated  the  village,  with  its  slate-roofed 
steeple    showing    amid    the    thatched     roofs    and    the 

230 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

rounded  tops  of  the  apple-trees.  The  view  is  not  very 
extensive,  being  bounded  on  both  sides  by  the  crest  of 
the  hill,  but  it  is  cheerful  and  restful.  By  the  bridge 
are  a  mill  and  a  tower-like  building  of  red  stone  ;  the 
almost  incessant  baying  of  dogs  and  a  few  setters  and 
bandy-legged  bassets,  warming  themselves  in  the  sun 
before  the  door,  would  suffice  to  indicate  that  it  is  the 
game-keeper's  dwelling,  even  did  the  buzzards  and 
ferrets  nailed  to  the  shutters  leave  you  for  a  moment 
uncertain  of  the  fact.  From  this  point  begins  an 
avenue  of  mountain  ash  whose  scarlet  berries  attract 
clouds  of  birds  ;  as  it  is  not  much  travelled,  there  is 
but  a  white  strip  in  the  centre,  the  remainder  of  the 
road  being  covered  with  a  short  fine  moss,  while  in  the 
double  rut  made  by  the  carriage-wheels  croak  and  leap 
little  frogs  of  a  chrysoprase  green.  Farther  on  one 
comes  to  a  gateway,  the  ironwork  of  which  was  once 
painted  or  gilded,  and  the  sides  of  which  are  adorned 
with  artichokes  and  spikes.  Then  the  road  leads  on 
to  the  mansion,  which  is  still  invisible,  for  it  is  sunk  in 
greenery  like  a  bird's  nest.  The  road  does  not  hurry 
you  to  the  mansion,  for  it  turns  aside  not  infrequently 
to  pass  by  a  brook  or  a  fountain,  a  pretty  kiosk  or  a  fair 
prospect,  crossing  or  re-crossing  the  river  by  Chinese 

231 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

or  rustic  bridges.  The  unevenness  of  the  surface,  and 
the  weirs  built  for  the  benefit  of  the  rich  make  water- 
falls four  to  five  feet  high  here  and  there,  and  it  is 
most  delightful  to  hear  these  little  falls  close  by,  often 
without  seeing  them,  owing  to  the  impenetrable  screen 
of  willows  and  elders  which  border  the  river  bank. 
The  whole  of  this  portion  of  the  park,  however,  forms 
the  antechamber,  as  it  were,  of  the  other,  for  a  high- 
road unfortunately  traverses  the  estate  and  cuts  it  into 
two  parts  ;  the  inconvenience  thus  caused  having,  how- 
ever, been  remedied  in  an  ingenious  manner.  Two 
great  battlemented  walls,  filled  with  barbicans  and  loop- 
holes imitating  a  ruined  fortress,  rise  on  either  side  of 
the  road,  and  from  a  tower  covered  with  huge  ivy,  on 
the  side  nearest  the  mansion,  connect  with  the  bastion 
opposite  by  means  of  a  regular  drawbridge  with  iron 
chains,  which  is  lowered  every  morning.  The  donjon 
is  entered  by  a  fine  Gothic  archway,  and  thence  one 
penetrates  the  second  part  of  the  park,  the  trees  in 
which,  not  having  been  cut  down  for  more  than  a  cen- 
tury, are  extraordinarily  high ;  their  knotty  trunks, 
covered  with  parasites,  are  the  handsomest  and  the  most 
remarkable  I  have  ever  seen.  The  foliage  of  some  of 
them  begins  near  the  top  only,  and  spreads  out  in  the 

232 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

form  of  a  canopy  \  that  of  others  is  like  a  plume  ;  at  a 
certain  height  on  other  trees  the  foliage  forms  a  full 
clump  near  the  stem,  and  from  this  point  the  naked 
trunk  springs  upwards  like  a  second  tree  planted  within 
the  first.  These  trees  are  of  such  curiously  varied 
forms  that  they  give  the  impression  of  the  foreground 
of  a  composite  landscape  or  of  the  wings  of  a  stage 
scene.  Ivy,  passing  from  one  to  the  other  and  cling- 
ing close  enough  to  choke  them,  mingles  its  dark, 
heart-shaped  foliage  with  the  green  leafage  and  seems  to 
form  its  shadow.  Nothing  can  be  more  picturesque. 
At  this  point  the  river  widens  and  forms  a  small  lake, 
whose  shallowness  enables  one  to  see,  through  the  trans- 
parent water,  the  beautiful  aquatic  plants  which  cover 
the  lakebed.  They  are  nymphoeas  and  lotus,  that 
float  idly  in  the  purest  crystal,  that  reflects  both  the 
clouds  and  the  weeping  willows  that  bend  over  the 
bank.  The  mansion  is  on  the  farther  side,  and  a 
light  skiff,  painted  apple-green  and  scarlet,  saves  one  a 
longish  detour  to  the  bridge. 

The  mansion  itself  is  a  group  of  buildings  erected  at 
different  times,  with  dissimilar  gables  and  innumerable 
pinnacles.  One  building  is  of  brick  with  stone  fac- 
ings \  the  main  building  is  of  the  rustic  order,  covered 

233 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

with  bosses  and  vermiculated  work.  A  third  portion  is 
quite  modern  ;  it  has  a  flat  Italian  roof  with  vases, 
a  balustrade  of  tiles,  and  a  canvas  portico  in  the  shape  of 
a  tent.  The  windows  are  all  of  different  sizes  and  do 
not  correspond  with  each  other;  they  are  of  all  shapes; 
even  the  trefoil  and  the  pointed  arch  are  to  be  met  with, 
for  the  chapel  is  Gothic.  Some  parts  of  the  buildings 
are  trellised,  after  the  fashion  of  Chinese  houses,  with 
trellises  painted  in  different  colours,  on  which  climb 
honeysuckle,  jessamine,  nasturtiums,  and  Virginia 
creepers,  the  tendrils  of  which  enter  boldly  into  the 
rooms,  and  seem  to  hold  out  a  hand  as  they  wish  you 
good-morning. 

In  spite  of,  or  rather  on  account  of  its  irregularity  the 
aspect  of  the  mansion  is  charming  ;  it  cannot  all  be 
taken  in  at  once;  the  eye  may  choose,  and  something 
new  is  always  turning  up.  This  place,  which  I  did 
not  know,  for  it  is  some  sixty  miles  off,  took  my  fancy 
at  once,  and  I  felt  greatly  obliged  to  Rosette  for  having 
had  the  excellent  idea  of  selecting  such  a  retreat  for 
our  loves. 

We  reached  it  at  dusk,  and,  as  we  were  tired,  we 
hastened,  after  supping  heartily,  to  our  beds,  for  we  in- 
tended to  have  a  good  sleep. 

234 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

I  was  dreaming  a  lovely  dream,  full  of  flowers,  scents, 
and  birds,  when  I  felt  a  warm  breath  on  my  brow,  and 
a  kiss  alight  flutteringly  on  my  lips.  A  dainty  smack- 
ing of  lips  and  a  soft  moisture  on  the  spot  touched 
gave  me  reason  to  believe  that  I  was  not  dreaming ;  I 
opened  my  eyes,  and  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  Rosette's 
fresh  white  neck  as  she  bent  over  my  bed  to  kiss  me. 
I  put  my  nrms  round  her  waist  and  returned  her  kiss 
more  lovingly  than  I  had  done  for  a  long  time. 

She  pulled  up  the  blind  and  opened  the  window, 
then  came  back  and  seated  herself  on  the  side  of  my 
couch,  holding  my  hand  in  hers  and  playing  with  my 
rings.  She  was  dressed  with  the  most  coquettish  sim- 
plicity. She  wore  neither  stays  nor  petticoats,  but 
merely  and  only  a  long  wrapper  of  milk-white  lawn, 
very  full  and  falling  in  many  folds.  Her  hair  was 
brushed  up  and  held  by  a  single  white  rose  on  the  top 
of  her  head  ;  her  ivory  feet  were  shod  with  slippers  of 
brilliant  and  contrasting  embroidery,  and  were  as  small 
as  small  could  be,  though  still  too  large,  and,  without 
heel-backs  like  those  of  Roman  women.  I  regretted, 
on  seeing  how  attractive  she  looked,  that  I  was 
actually  her  lover,  instead  of  being  just  on  the  poinv 
of  becoming  so. 

235 


»!/•  *£**£*  ri/«  #JU  «4h»  •&•  *A»  *^»  *-&»  *&»«4l»»i»  #&»•**  *4»  «Jr»  »|^  «4*  *&•«*•  «£•  «*»«^» 
w»v  *w»   *y\#   •»•   vr»    vim    •*»    or*    www    •*•   *r*    •**  *r»  *v  *•<*  •*•  •"»"•  ***  •*«•  •*'*  •«*    «**•  •*•  *** 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

The  dream  I  was  dreaming  at  the  moment  that  she 
came  to  wake  me  in  such  pleasant  fashion  was  not 
far  removed  from  the  reality.  My  room  looked  out  on 
the  lakelet  I  described  a  moment  ago.  A  jessamine 
plant  framed  in  the  window  and  let  fall  its  starry  flowers 
like  a  silver  shower  upon  my  floor ;  great  foreign 
flowers  swung  their  blooms  under  my  balcony  as  if 
offering  me  incense ;  a  suave,  indefinable  scent,  com- 
posed of  many  different  perfumes,  was  wafted  to  my 
bed,  from  which  I  could  see  the  water  flash  and  sparkle 
as  if  covered  with  spangles  ;  the  birds  chattered, 
warbled,  chirped,  whistled  —  making  a  sound  as  har- 
monious and  confused  as  the  buzzing  of  a  dance. 
Opposite,  on  a  hill  lighted  up  by  the  sun,  stretched 
a  sward,  golden-green,  on  which  fed,  herded  by  a 
small  boy,  a  number  of  great  oxen  scattered  here  and 
there.  Away  up  and  farther  back,  I  caught  sight 
of  large  tracts  of  woods  of  a  darker  green,  whence 
arose  in  spiral  wisps  the  bluish  smoke  of  the  charcoal- 
burners'  fires. 

In  this  whole  prospect  everything  was  calm,  fresh, 
and  smiling,  and  wherever  I  cast  my  eyes  I  saw  only 
youth  and  beauty.  My  room  was  hung  with  chintz, 
with  matting  on   the  floor,  vases    of  blue  Japan  china, 

236 


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m  «/t\#    «*n»    •»«    •»«•    «f»    •<»»    *t»    *r«    «SF»    «i»    **•  «l»  •*»  *»<•  •«»  *»<•  *w»  m  •*•  •»»   «vw  «Sr»  «/»* 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

with  round  paunches  and  long  narrow  necks,  full  of 
curious  flowers,  tastefully  arranged  on  stands  and  on 
the  dark  blue  marble  mantelpiece,  the  fireplace  being 
itself  filled  with  flowers.  Over  the  doors,  panels  repre- 
senting scenes  of  pastoral  life  in  cheerful  colours  and 
delicate  drawing  ;  sofas  and  divans  in  every  corner  — 
and,  finally,  a  beautiful  young  woman  all  in  white, 
whose  skin  gave  a  delicate  rose  flush  to  the  dress, 
wherever  the  latter  touched  the  skin.  Nothing  more 
effective  could  possibly  be  devised  for  the  delight  of  the 
soul  and  the  lust  of  the  eye. 

So  my  idle,  satisfied  glance  passed  with  equal  delight 
from  a  magnificent  vase  adorned  with  many  dragons 
and  mandarins,  to  Rosette's  slipper,  and  the  bit  of 
shoulder  that  showed  under  the  lawn  ;  it  lighted  upon 
the  trembling  stars  of  the  jessamine  and  the  long  droop- 
ing branches  of  the  willows  on  the  shore,  crossed  the 
lakeand  wandered  over  the  hill,  then  returned  to  the 
room  to  settle  on  the  rose-coloured  knots  of  some  shep- 
herdess's bodice.  Through  the  interstices  of  the  foli- 
age gleamed  the  innumerable  blue  eyes  of  heaven ;  the 
water  murmured  quite  softly,  and  I,  I  allowed  all  this 
joy  to  lap  me,  plunged  in  a  tranquil,  silent  ecstasy, 
with  my  hand  still  between  Rosette's  hands. 

237 


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v»vs  am*    «vw    w*v*    •*<•     **•    a*w     «■<•     w*     •?•    •*•    •»»  •*!«   *^»   «"*•#   •>»>»    v*«  *»•   «r»   •»*<•   •»»    ««*•    »»<•  wr» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

Do  what  you  please,  happiness  is  pink  and  white; 
you  can  scarcely  depict  it  otherwise ;  tender  tints 
belong  to  it  by  right.  Its  palette  holds  but  water-green, 
heaven's  blue,  and  straw-colour ;  its  pictures  are  all 
painted  on  a  light  background  like  those  of  Chinese 
painters.  With  flowers,  light,  and  perfume,  with  a  soft, 
silky  skin  touching  yours,  a  veiled  harmony  coming 
one  knows  not  whence,  one  is  perfectly  happy ;  nor  is 
it  possible  to  be  happy  otherwise.  Even  I,  who  abhor 
the  commonplace  and  dream  only  of  strange  adven- 
tures, violent  passions,  mad  ecstasies,  startling  and 
perilous  situations,  even  I  have  to  be  stupidly  happy 
in  that  way,  for  do  what  I  may,  I  can  not  find 
another. 

Pray  note  that  none  of  these  thoughts  occurred  to 
me  at  the  time  ;  they  came  afterwards,  while  writing 
to  you.  At  that  particular  moment  I  was  wholly 
wrapped  up  in  enjoyment,  — the  only  occupation  which 
becomes  a  sensible  man. 

There  is  no  need  to  describe  the  life  we  lead  here  ; 
you  can  easily  guess  it.  We  walk  in  the  great  woods, 
pick  violets  and  strawberries,  exchange  kisses  and  little 
blue  flowers,  lunch  on  the  grass,  read,  and  forget  our 
books  under  the  trees  ;   we  go    out   on    the  water,  and 

238 


•9*  mm»    «t*    vw*    *r*     vr*    •**     «v*     •**    wgw    «•*    «n>»  viw   wtw  •«<•  •»<•   •«<•  w#  •*>•   *»<•   •*»    **•    «r»  «r» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

the  end  "of  a  scarf  or  a  white  hand  trails  in  the  stream  ; 
our  long-drawn  songs  and  laughter  are  repeated  by  the 
echoes  on  the  banks  —  our  life,  in  short,  is  the  most 
Arcadian    that    can    be    imagined. 

Rosette  overwhelms  me  with  caresses  and  attentions  ; 
cooing  more  than  dove  in  May,  she  twines  around  and 
enfolds  me;  she  wants  me  to  have  no  other  atmosphere 
than  her  breath,  no  other  horizon  than  her  eyes ;  she 
blockades  me  most  carefully,  and  nothing  enters  or 
goes  out  without  her  leave ;  she  has  erected  a  little 
guard-room  next  my  heart,  where  she  keeps  watch 
and  ward  night  and  day.  She  says  the  most  charm- 
ing things  to  me  ;  she  writes  me  very  loving  madri- 
gals, sits  on  my  knee,  and  behaves  towards  me  exactly 
as  a  humble  slave  towards  her  lord  and  master  ;  which 
rather  suits  me,  for  I  like  little  submissive  ways, 
and  I  have  a  leaning  towards  oriental  despotism. 
She  does  not  take  the  least  step  without  asking  my 
advice,  and  she  appears  to  have  completely  given  up  her 
own  fancy  and  her  own  will  ;  she  seeks  to  guess  and 
forestall  my  thoughts  ;  she  bores  me  with  her  tender- 
ness, her  complaisance;  she  is  so  perfect  that  I  want 
to  throw  her  out  of  the  window.  How7  the  devil  can  I 
give  up  so  adorable  a  woman   without  seeming  to  be  a 

239 


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•vs.  v«v»    <*p#    vr*    «f*»    •*•    •*»     wc»     m    «f«    «i»    ««*  «"1f»   *^»  w**  •**»   «*•  •*#  «n»  •^  *W    «SR»   w»  %** 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

monster  ?  It  would  be  enough  to  discredit  me  forever 
in  the  world  of  love. 

I  do  so  wish  I  could  catch  her  tripping,  put  her  in 
the  wrong.  I  impatiently  await  an  opportunity  to 
quarrel  with  her,  but  the  wretch  will  take  good  care 
it  does  not  arise.  When  I  speak  slowly  and  harshly  to 
her,  in  order  to  bring  about  a  row,  she  answers  so 
softly,  with  so  silvery  a  voice,  eyes  so  full  of  tears, 
so  sadly  and  so  lovingly  that  I  feel  I  am  worse  than  a 
tiger,  or  at  least  than  a  crocodile,  and  beg  her  forgive- 
ness I  must,  though  I  rage  inwardly. 

She  is  literally  killing  me  with  love,  she  tortures  me, 
she  gives  daily  an  additional  twist  to  the  thumbscrews. 
She  probably  intends  that  I  shall  tell  her  I  hate  her, 
that  she  bores  me  to  death,  and  that,  if  she  does  not 
leave  me  alone,  I  shall  slash  her  face  with  my  riding- 
whip.  By  Jove  !  she  will  succeed,  and,  the  devil  take 
me,  it  will  not  be  long  before  she  does,  either,  if  she 
goes  on  being  as  charming  as  now. 

In  spite  of  all  this  fair  outward  seeming,  Rosette  is 
as  sick  of  me  as  I  am  sick  of  her  ;  but  as  she  has  in- 
dulged in  the  most  marked  follies  on  my  account,  she 
does  not  want  to  be  held  responsible  by  the  worthy 
corporation   of  amorous   women    for  the  breaking-off 

240 


•£•*§»#*•  *!/•  *J/»  JU  #1*  *i/«  «4*  »Jt»  #iU  •**  *X»  »*•  »JU  oXt  ■£•  e|^  ffi'*  <•*•  r§»  #*•  «4*»s« 

•r*«  •/**    «<r*    vr*    *ts»     •>*»    aw*     *r»     wSU    »m    mw    «*»  Mr*  «r»  *»<•  •*<•    *9*  «^#   «r*  *w  *f»    •**•   «t»  vsw 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

of  our  affair.  Every  great  passion  is  of  course  to  be 
eternal,  and  it  is  very  convenient  to  enjoy  the  benefit 
of  this  eternity  without  its  disadvantages.  Rosette 
reasons  in  this  way  :  "  This  young  man  cares  now  very 
little  indeed  for  me,  but  as  he  is  rather  artless  and 
good-natured,  he  dares  not  show  it  openly,  and  does  not 
know  which  way  to  turn.  It  is  plain  that  I  bore  him, 
but  he  will  die  in  harness  rather  than  make  up  his  mind 
to  leave  me.  Being  a  bit  of  a  poet,  his  head  is  full  of 
fine  phrases  about  love  and  passion,  and  he  believes 
himself  conscientiously  compelled  to  play  the  part  of  a 
Tristan  or  an  Amadis.  Now,  as  there  is  nothing  on 
earth  more  unbearable  than  the  caresses  of  a  person 
whom  one  is  beginning  to  cease  loving  (and  with  a 
woman  that  means  hating  her  violently),  I  shall  lavish 
caresses  on  him  until  he  is  sick  of  them,  and  he  either 
will  have  to  send  me  to  the  devil,  or  take  to  loving  me 
again  as  at  the  first,  which  he  will  be  mighty  careful 
not  to  do." 

Nothing  could  be  better  devised.  It  is  so  satisfying 
to  play  the  part  of  betrayed  Ariadne.  You  are  pitied 
and  admired ;  there  is  nothing  bad  enough  for  the 
wretch  who  has  been  so  brutal  as  to  abandon  such 
an  adorable  creature ;  you  put  on  an  air  of  resignation 

vol.  i  —  1 6  241 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

and  grief,  lean  your  chin  on  your  hand  and  your  elbow 
on  your  knee,  so  as  to  show  off  the  pretty  blue  vein: 
of  the  wrist ;  you  avoid  mentioning  the  ingrate'i 
name,  but  you  make  side  allusions  to  it,  and  simul- 
taneously utter  little  sighs  admirably  modulated. 

To  abandon  so  good,  so  beautiful,  so  loving  i 
woman,  one  who  has  made  such  sacrifices  for  you, 
against  whom  not  a  word  can  be  said,  a  chosen  vessel 
a  pearl  of  love,  a  spotless  mirror,  a  drop  of  milk,  2 
white  rose,  an  ideal  essence  for  the  perfuming  of  life  : 
a  woman  who  ought  to  be  worshipped  on  bended  knee, 
and  who,  after  her  death,  ought  to  be  cut  up  into  little 
pieces  for  use  as  relics,  —  to  abandon  such  a  woman, 
shamefully,  fraudulently,  wickedly  !  —  why,  a  pirate 
would  do  no  worse !  To  give  her  her  death-blow, 
for  she  is  sure  to  die  of  it !  A  man  must  have  a  heart 
of  stone  to  behave  in  such  a  manner. 

O  men,  men  ! 

Thus  do  I  speak  to  myself,  but  perhaps  I  am  wrong. 
Although  women  are  naturally  born  actresses,  I  can 
scarcely  believe  they  are  quite  as  much  actresses  as  that 
would  imply,  and  it  may  be  that  all  Rosette's  demonstra- 
tions are  but  the  true  expression  of  her  feelings  for  me. 
But  no  matter  what  the  truth  may  be,  the  continuation 

242 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

of  our  solitary  mode  of  life  has  become  impossible,  and 
the  fair  lady  of  the  castle  has  at  last  sent  invitations  to 
her  acquaintances  in  the  neighbourhood.  We  are  busy 
preparing  to  receive  these  worthy  country  bumpkins, 
male  and  female.     Farewell,  my  friend. 


243 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 


dU  *Jt»  ssi,  *!/•  «i*  »JU  •!/•  *f/?  «JU  ©J^  «#•  *&••£•  «4t»  eJLe  e#»  «4q  eJU  e*»  «*|o  ***  •§•  eg*  «1« 
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V 


I  WAS  wrong ;  my  wicked  heart,  incapable  of 
feeling  love,  put  forth  that  explanation  to  justify 
its  ridding  itself  of  a  burden  of  gratitude  it  refuses 
to  bear;  I  had  joyfully  seized  upon  that  notion  by  way 
of  self-excuse;  I  clung  to  it,  but  it  is  utterly  baseless. 
Rosette  was  not  playing  a  part,  and  never  was  a  woman 
truer  than  she  is.  Well,  I  am  almost  angry  with  her 
because  of  the  sincerity  of  her  love,  which  forms  one 
bond  the  more  between  us,  and  makes  it  harder  still  and 
less  excusable  to  break  with  her.  I  would  rather  have 
her  false  and  fickle.  Curious  state  of  thinrs.  is  it  not  ? 
You  want  to  leave,  but  you  stay  ;  you  would  like  to  say, 
"  I  hate  you  ;  "  and  what  you  do  say  is,  "  I  love  you." 
The  past  urges  you  on,  and  prevents  your  staying  or 
turning  back.  You  are  faithful  very  regretfully.  A 
nameless  sense  of  shame  prevents  your  giving  yourself 
wholly  to  other  acquaintances,  and  makes  you  com- 
promise with  yourself.  You  give  the  one  all  you  can 
decently  rob  the  other  of;  the  chances,  the  opportu- 
nities of  meeting,  which  came  so  easily  before,  are  now 
not  easy  to  find  ;   you  begin  to   recollect  that  you   have 

244 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

important  matters  to  attend  to.  Such  a  situation,  full 
of  trouble  as  it  is,  nevertheless  is  not  as  painful  as  that 
in  which  I  find  myself.  It  is  easier  to  break  away 
when  it  is  a  new  love  that  calls  on  you  to  be  off*  with 
the  old.  Hope  smiles  gently  at  you  from  the  threshold 
of  the  home  that  holds  your  love.  A  fairer  and  more 
rosy-hued,  white-winged  illusion  hovers  over  the  scarce- 
closed  tomb  of  its  sister  that  has  just  died  ;  a  new 
flower  of  finer  bloom  and  more  exquisite  scent,  has 
suddenly  sprung  up  amid  the  withered  calyxes  of  the 
faded  bouquet  ;  fair  azure  prospects  open  out  before 
you;  avenues  of  discreet  and  dewy  shrubbery  are  pro- 
longed to  the  very  horizon,  —  gardens  with  ghostly 
white  statues  or  a  bench  against  an  ivy-covered  wall ; 
lawns  diapered  with  daisies  ;  narrow  balconies  on  which 
one  leans  to  gaze  at  the  moon  ;  shadows  broken  by  faint 
glimmerings  of  light,  —  or  drawing-rooms  into  which 
the  light  of  day  enters,  but  dimmed  by  heavy  draperies; 
in  a  word,  the  darkness  and  the  solitude  that  timid  love 
seeks.  It  is  like  a  renewal  of  one's  youth.  And,  be- 
sides, there  is  the  change  of  habits,  the  difference  of 
scene  and  of  people.  One  feels  a  sort  of  remorse,  no 
doubt,  but  desire  flutters  and  murmurs  around  one,  as 
bees  in  springtime,  and  prevents  its  voice  being  heard. 

245 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

The   void    in  the  heart    is    rilled ;    remembrances  are 
effaced  by   new  impressions. 

But  with  me  the  case  is  wholly  different.  I  am  not 
in  love  with  any  one,  and  I  wish  to  break  with  Rosette 
more  because  I  am  weary  of  and  bored  by  myself  than 
because  I  am  tired  of  her.  My  old  fancies,  which 
had  been  partially  stilled,  have  re-awakened  more  mad 
than  before.  As  then,  so  now  am  I  tormented  by  the 
desire  to  have  a  mistress,  and  now,  as  then,  even  when 
in  Rosette's  arms,  I  doubt  whether  I  have  ever  had 
one.  Again  I  see  the  fair  lady  at  her  window,  in  her 
Louis  XIII  park,  and  the  huntress,  on  her  white  horse, 
gallops  down  the  forest  path.  My  ideal  beauty  smiles 
at  me  from  her  cloud-hammock ;  I  seem  to  recognise 
her  voice  in  the  song  of  birds  and  the  soughing  of  the 
leaves ;  I  seem  to  hear  on  all  sides  voices  calling  to 
me,  and  to  feel  the  daughters  of  the  air  brush  my  cheek 
with  the  fringe  of  their  invisible  scarfs.  As  in  the 
days  of  my  troubles  of  mind,  I  fancy  that  if  I  were  to 
post  away  at  once  and  go  very  fast,  very  far,  some- 
where or  another,  I  should  reach  some  place  wThere 
things  are  going  on  that  concern  me,  and  where  my 
fate  is  being  settled.  I  feel  that  I  am  impatiently  ex- 
pected in  some  corner  of  this  earth,  —  which*,  I  do  not 

246 


•jU«4*«4*  •*••!»  JU  •i^  JL  JU  »1«  «i*<pJL»«l«  #!«•£•  JL«1*#1*  JUJu*I*  •§»•£••£• 

»vv«   «nv*    vr*    •v*    «n»     •/«*    «t»     vr»     •;n»     «^»    *r»    «r*  vrw   «r*  «<**»  •»<•    «•**   vn   «r*   •*<•   *▼*    «•<•    **•  *•"»«• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

know.  A  suffering  soul  calls  passionately  to  mine 
and  dreams  of  me,  though  it  cannot  come  to  me ; 
hence  my  anxiety  and  my  restlessness.  I  am  violently 
dragged  from  my  place.  My  nature  is  not  of  those  to 
which  others  tend,  a  fixed  star  around  which  other 
luminaries  circle  ;  I  have  to  wander  through  the  spaces 
of  heaven  like  an  ill-regulated  meteor  until  I  meet  the 
planet  whose  satellite  I  am  to  be,  the  Saturn  to  whom 
I  am  to  give  my  ring.  Oh  !  when  will  that  union  take 
place  ?  Until  it  does  I  can  look  for  no  rest,  no  stay, 
and  I  shall  be  like  the  quivering  magnet  of  a  compass 
that  is  seeking  the  north. 

I  have  been  caught  by  the  wing  in  this  treacherous 
lime.  I  thought  to  lose  a  feather  or  two  at  most, 
and  to  fly  away  whenever  it  seemed  good  to  me,  but  it 
is  most  difficult  to  do  so.  I  am  caught  in  an  imper- 
ceptible net  more  difficult  to  break  than  that  Vulcan 
forged,  and  the  meshes  are  so  fine  I  cannot  escape 
through  them.  Aside  from  that,  it  is  a  large  net  and  I 
can  move  about  in  it  with  apparent  freedom ;  it  is 
scarcely  noticeable  unless  I  try  to  break  through  it ; 
then  it  resists  and  becomes  as  solid  as  a  wall  of  brass. 

The  time  I  have  lost,  O  ideal  mine  !  without 
making    the   least    effort   to    turn    you    into    a    reality  ! 

247 


tl?  4?  •&•  tl?  *^  *4f»  *i*  4?»  «lr*«if*«l*«!i»«l««l*«|t«i»«l««l*«A««A«*i»«A»  •!••!• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

How  shamefully  have   I  yielded  to  that  pleasure  of  a  . 
night,  and  how  little  do  I   deserve  to   meet  you  ! 

Sometimes  I  think  of  forming  new  ties,  but  I  have 
no  one  in   mind.      Generally  I  promise  myself  that  if 
I  succeed  in  breaking  away  I   shall  never  again  assume 
such  bonds,  yet  there  is   nothing  to  justify   such  a  re- 
solve ;  this    whole    affair   has    been   apparently   a  very 
happy  one,  and  I  have  no  reason  whatever  to  complain 
of  Rosette.      She  has  ever  been   kind  to  me  and  has 
behaved    admirably   well ;   she    has    been   a    model    of 
faithfulness  to  me  and  has  not  even  given  cause  for 
suspicion  ;  the  most  alert  and  keenest  jealousy  would 
have  had  nothing  to  charge  her  with  and  would  forci- 
bly have  been  lulled  to  sleep.      A  jealous   man  could 
have   been  jealous    of  the    past    alone ;   it    is    true   he 
would  have  been  amply  justified  in  that  case,  but  that 
sort    of  jealousy  is    happily    rare,  and  the   present   suf- 
fices  without    going    back    to    dig    in    the     ruins   of 
former  loves  so  that  one  may  extract  from  them  vials 
of  poison  and  cups  of  bitterness.      What  woman  would 
ever  be  loved  if  one  thought  of  all  that  ?      You  know 
in  a  vague  way  that  a  woman   has  had  several  lovers 
before  you,  but  you  say  to  yourself —  so  full  of  twists 
and  turns  is   man's   pride  —  that  you  are  the  first  she 

248 


•!/•  *A*  *ft*  #J/«  »JU  *!•  •!/«  »Jt» •*»  eJU  *§»  •=»**•  •*»  ••*  •*•  **r»  •*♦  »£-»  •!•  «*•  JL»  «JU  #1% 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

has  truly  loved,  and  that  an  unhappy  chain  of  circum- 
stances alone  bound  her  to  people  unworthy  of  her, 
or  else  that  it  was  the  vague  desire  of  a  heart  seeking 
to  satisfy  itself,  and  which  changed  from  one  to  the 
other  because  it  had  not  yet  met  the  right  man. 

It  may  be  that  one  can  really  love  a  virgin  only  — 
virgin  in  body  and  soul  —  a  frail  bud  as  yet  caressed 
by  no  zephyr  and  into  whose  closed  bosom  has  fallen 
neither  the  raindrop  nor  the  dewdrop,  a  chaste  flower 
that  exhibits  its  fair  whiteness  to  you  alone,  a  glorious 
silver-urned  lily  which  has  slaked  no  desires,  on  which 
your  sun  alone  has  shone,  which  has  bent  to  your 
breath  only,  which  has  been  watered  by  no  hand  but 
yours.  Bitter  and  shameful  it  is  to  think  that  one  is 
kissing  away  another's  kisses ;  that  there  is  perhaps 
not  a  single  spot  on  that  brow,  those  lips,  that  throat, 
those  shoulders,  on  the  whole  of  that  body  which  is 
now  yours,  which  has  not  been  reddened  and  branded 
by  strange  lips ;  that  the  divine  murmurs  heard  when 
speech  fails  have  already  sounded  in  other  ears ; 
that  the  senses  so  deeply  stirred  have  not  learned 
ecstasy  and  delirious  delight  from  you,  and  that  deep 
down  yonder,  away  in  one  of  those  recesses  of  the  soul 
into  which   one  never  looks,  there  watches  an  inexo- 

249, 


#!*♦&>  *t»  vl/«  el/»  *1*  Jt»  rl*  el*  <Jt»  #l^#A»»l»e»«  •£•****♦*'»  •!■»  •§»  •**•*•  «*•  •*••»** 
•w\»  •**•  ««U  vm   «*»    «m   »Ss.    •*»    •!*•   •*•   •»•   •»•  «f»  •**  •*•  «*•  •*»  »^»  •*<•  •«<•  •*•  •<•»  •*•  ami 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

rable  remembrance  that  compares  the  former  pleasures 
with  the  present  ones. 

Although  my  natural  indolence  leads  me  to  prefer 
highroads  to  untrodden  paths  and  the  public  trough  to 
the  mountain  springs,  I  must  absolutely  love  some 
maiden  as  pure  as  snow,  as  trembling  as  a  sensitive 
plant,  who  can  only  blush  and  look  down.  Perhaps 
within  those  clear  depths  within  which  no  one  has  yet 
plunged  shall  I  find  a  pearl  of  the  first  water,  a  worthy 
pendant  to  that  of  Cleogatra ;  but  to  do  that  I  should 
have  to  break  with  Rosette,  for  it  is  not  likely  to  be 
with  her  that  I  shall  satisfy  that  desire  ;  and  indeed  I 
do  not  feel  that  I  have  the  strength  to  do  so. 

Then  I  may  as  well  confess  that  I  have  a  hidden, 
shameful  motive  which  dares  not  manifest  itself  openly, 
but  which  I  must  nevertheless  tell  you  of,  since  I  have 
promised  to  conceal  nothing  from  you  ;  and  a  con- 
fession, to  have  any  merit,  must  be  complete.  Now 
this  motive  has  much  to  do  with  my  uncertainty.  If 
I  break  with  Rosette,  some  time  will  necessarily  elapse 
before  her  place  is  filled,  easy-mannered  as  might  be 
the  women  from  among  whom  I  would  select  her 
successor,  and  I  have  acquired  with  her  a  habit  of 
pleasure.      It   is   true   that    one  may   have  recourse  to 

250 


•4*  •4**4*  *4**s*  •*»  •*•  *i'*  «4*  *^*  *A»*A»«*«»4«r*»»l«#«i»»i*»A«  •!••**  •§•  •*••§• 

•n\«  v»w    w»    v»«»    «TW    ««••    OT»    *r»     «*?#    *v«    **•    «r*  vr*  «f»  •>•*•  w*w  •*<•  tw  tin  •▼*  vf*    «im   *v>«  •»• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

courtesans.  I  rather  liked  them  formerly,  and  did  not 
hesitate  to  make  use  of  them  under  analogous  circum- 
stances, but  now  they  disgust  me  horribly  and  nause- 
ate me.  They  are  not  to  be  thought  of,  and  I  am  so 
softened  by  voluptuousness,  the  poison  has  so  thor- 
oughly struck  in,  that  I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of 
being  even  a  month  or  two  without  a  mistress.  Selfish- 
ness, of  course,  and  of  the  dirtiest,  but  I  believe  that 
if  the  most  virtuous  of  men  chose  to  be  frank  they 
would    have  something  very   similar  to  confess. 

That  is  the  tie  which  most  strongly  binds  me,  and 
but  for  this  fact  Rosette  and  I  would  long  since  have 
hopelessly  quarrelled.  Then,  if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  courting  a  woman  is  such  a  mortal  bore  that  I 
do  not  feel  like  undertaking  it.  To  set  once  more 
about  repeating  all  the  lovely  nonsense  I  have  already 
talked  so  often,  to  play  again  at  the  worshipping  busi- 
ness, to  write  notes  and  answer  others,  to  see  fair  ones 
home,  six  miles  off,  at  night,  to  freeze  my  feet  and  catch 
cold  at  windows,  while  watching  the  shadow  of  the 
beloved  ;  to  calculate  on  a  sofa  how  many  garments 
separate  you  from  your  goddess  ;  to  carry  bouquets  and 
to  frequent  ball-rooms  merely  to  get  to  the  very  point 
I  have  reached  —  why,  it  is  not  worth  the  pains  !      As 

251 


rJl«*ft*  *J/»  «X*  •Xs   »&-»  «Jr»  <ylo  *JU  •£*  «JU  e&»  »>§•  *ft*  *Ji*  •*»  •**  S*^*  «*=*"*  ****  C^S®  •»*  •■»•*• 
«^fl  **w>    «*h*    •£•    t*U     W5»    tw     «*?•     •**•    •¥•    ■••    **»  •*•  •*»•  •*•  eSS#   w«  <*5*   **\*  »*w  «r*    «*•    or*  *** 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

well  stick  to  my  rut.  What  is  the  good  of  getting  out 
of  it  to  get  into  another  exactly  similar,  after  much 
work  and  trouble  ?  If  I  were  in  love  there  would  be 
no  trouble  about  it  at  all,  and  the  whole  business  would 
strike  me  as  delightful,  but  I  am  not  in  love,  much  as 
I  wish  to  be ;  for,  after  all,  love  is  the  one  thing  in  this 
world,  and  if  pleasure,  which  is  but  the  shadow  of  love, 
attracts  us  so  greatly,  what  must  the  reality  be  ?  In 
what  state  of  ineffable  ecstasy,  in  what  region  of  pure 
delight  must  not  find  themselves  those  whose  hearts 
he  has  pierced  with  one  of  his  golden-barbed  arrows, 
and  who  burn  with  the  sweet  flame  of  mutual  love  ! 

By  Rosette's  side  I  experience  the  flat  calm  and  the 
sort  of  lazy  comfort  which  is  derived  from  the  gratifi- 
cation of  our  senses,  but  nothing  more.  And  that  is 
not  enough.  That  voluptuous  numbness  not  infre- 
quently turns  into  a  torpor,  and  the  calm  into  weari- 
ness ;  then  I  fall  into  objectless  distraction  and  strangely 
savourless  reveries  which  fatigue  and  wear  me  out.  I 
must  somehow  or  another  get  out  of  this  state  of 
things. 

I  should  certainly  be  much  happier  than  I  am,  I 
should  bore  others  less  and  be  less  bored  myself,  if  it 
were  possible   for  me  to  be  like   some  of  my  friends 

252 


*i%  *&•  «\i»  «J.-«  *£*  #1»  •!/«  #|r»  *&»  •*»  *&•  #*U#&»  #*•  »**  •*»  •*»  •**  e*»  <*&•  eg*  «£*  ***  »|* 
»*>•  «m*   *¥•   •*•    •*•    ~^»   •*•    •*»    **•    «r*    «f»    «•«  »r*  •r»*  •*•  **»  •"*  ***  •»"■»  '**«'  •»»    •*•   •"*  *** 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

who  passionately  kiss  an  old  glove,  who  are  delighted 
with  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  who  would  not  exchange 
for  a  sultana's  jewels  a  few  wretched  flowTers  half 
withered  by  the  heat  of  the  ball-room,  who  weep  over 
and  sew  in  their  shirt,  over  the  heart,  a  note  so  poorly 
written  and  so  stupid  that  it  might  well  have  been 
copied  from  the  "  Complete  Letter  Writer,"  who 
adore  women  with  large  feet  and  give  as  an  excuse 
that  they  are  high-souled  ;  or  if  I  could  follow,  trem- 
bling with  emotion,  a  disappearing  dress,  wait  for  a 
door  to  open  and  let  pass  in  a  flood  of  light  a 
beloved  fair  form  ;  if  a  word  breathed  low  made  me 
change  colour;  if  I  had  the  strength  of  mind  to  give 
up  dinner  in  order  to  be  sooner  at  the  try  sting-place  ; 
if  I  were  capable  of  stabbing  a  rival  or  fighting  a  duel 
with  a  husband  ;  if  by  a  special  favour  of  heaven,  I 
could  think  ugly  women  clever,  and  ugly  and  stupid 
ones  kind-hearted  ;  if  I  could  make  up  my  mind  to 
dance  the  minuet  or  listen  to  the  sonatas  played  by 
young  ladies  on  the  harp  or  the  piano  ;  if  my  powers 
were  equal  to  hombre  and  reversis^  —  in  a  word,  if  I 
were  a  man,  and  not  a  poet. 

Of  women   I   have    never  asked   but   one   thing  — 
beauty;   I  can  easily  dispense  with  cleverness  and  soul- 

253 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

fulness  in  their  case.  A  beautiful  woman  is  always 
a  clever  woman  to  me  ;  she  is  clever  enough  to  be 
beautiful,  and  I  know  of  no  cleverness  that  matches 
that  one.  It  takes  many  and  many  a  brilliant  remark 
and  much  sparkling  wit  to  equal  the  flash  of  a  beauti- 
ful glance.  I  prefer  a  pretty  mouth  to  a  witticism, 
handsome  shoulders  to  any  one  virtue,  even  a  divine 
one ;  I  would  exchange  fifty  souls  for  a  pretty  foot, 
and  all  poetry  and  all  poets  for  the  hand  of  Joan  of 
Aragon  or  the  forehead  of  the  Madonna  di  Foligno. 
Above  all  things  I  adore  beauty  of  form  ;  to  me 
beauty  is  the  Deity  become  visible,  it  is  tangible  happi- 
ness, it  is  heaven  on  earth.  I  am  carried  away  beyond 
the  power  of  words  by  the  curve  of  certain  lines, 
the  delicacy  of  a  lip,  the  shape  of  an  eyelid,  a  bending 
of  the  head  or  the  long  oval  of  a  face,  and  I  remain 
under  the  spell  for  hours. 

Beauty,  the  only  thing  that  cannot  be  acquired, 
never  to  be  had  by  those  who  have  it  not  at  first, 
fragile  and  fleeting  flower  that  grows  without  having 
been  sown,  sheer  gift  of  heaven,  Beauty,  the  most 
dazzling  diadem  with  which  chance  can  crown  a  brow, 
thou  art  wondrous  and  precious,  like  everything  beyond 
man's  reach,  like  the  azure  of  the  firmament,  the  gold 

254 


•4*  *§•  *4»  •!(•  *4»  «4*  »4*  *J^  «lr*  *|^^#A»*4*«l*^^«X»«JU#JLe»l»#A«  JL  JL«£» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

of  the  star,  the  perfume  of  seraph's  lilies.  A  footstool 
may  be  exchanged  for  a  throne,  the  world  itself  may 
be  conquered  —  many  have  done  it,  but  who  can  help 
kneeling  before  thee,  pure  incarnation  of  the  Divine 
thought  ? 

I  ask  for  beauty  alone,  it  is  true,  but  I  must  have  it 
in  such  perfection  that  I  shall  probably  never  come 
across  it.  I  have  undoubtedly  seen  here  and  there,  in 
a  few  women,  admirable  parts  in  a  mediocre  whole,  and 
I  have  loved  them  for  what  there  was  of  choice  in  them, 
eliminating  the  remainder  ;  but  it  is  rather  painful  and 
grievous  work  to  thus  suppress  one  half  of  one's  mis- 
tress, and  to  mentally  cut  off  whatever  in  her  is  ugly  or 
common  by  keeping  one's  eyes  fixed  on  what  she 
happens  to  have  beautiful.  Beauty  is  harmony,  and 
a  uniformly  ugly  person  is  often  less  unpleasant  to 
look  at  than  a  woman  of  unequal  beauty.  Nothing 
worries  me  so  much  as  an  unfinished  masterpiece  or 
an  imperfect  beauty  —  a  spot  of  oil  shocks  us  less  on 
coarse  cloth  than  on  a  rich  stuff". 

Rosette  is  not  bad  ;  she  may  pass  for  beautiful,  but 
she  is  far  from  realising  what  I  dream  ;  she  is  a  statue 
several  parts  of  which  are  finished;  the  others  have 
not  been  sufficiently  freed  from  the  matrix  ;   some  parts 

255 


*!•*  «4*  «4*  «4«  »&•  #A»  JU  «i*  JU  ^•i*«J^«£*«i«^«ieWU»l*»i*ei**f*  •»•  *I»*J* 

*»\»    *«•     «W     «M     «^»      «N     «M      •»»      ««•     »£•     *W     «»•    •»<•    •*•    •""•    •»»    •««•    «**    ***    •*•    *•*     «*•    •"*  •** 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

are  brought  out  with  much  delicacy  and  charm,  others 
in  a  coarser  and  less  careful  way.  To  vulgar  eyes  the 
statue  appears  to  be  thoroughly  finished  and  complete 
in  beauty,  but  a  more  attentive  observer  soon  discovers 
places  where  the  workmanship  is  not  clean  enough,  and 
contours  which,  if  they  are  to  attain  their  proper  per- 
fection, require  that  the  workman's  nail  be  passed  and 
repassed  upon  them  many  a  time  —  love  has  to  polish 
this  statue  and  finish  it,  which  is  equivalent  to  saying 
that  I  shall  not  be  the  one  to  do  the  task. 

Mark,  I  do  not  circumscribe  beauty  within  certain 
curves  of  lines  merely.  The  port,  the  gesture,  the 
gait,  breath,  colour,  sound,  perfume,  all  that  is  life 
enters,  in  my  opinion,  into  the  composition  of  beauty ;, 
all  that  is  scented,  all  that  sings,  all  that  beams,  is 
beauty's  by  right.  I  love  rich  brocades,  costly  stuffs 
with  full  and  heavy  folds  ;  great  flowers  and  scent- 
boxes  ;  the  limpidity  of  running  waters  and  the  gleam 
and  shimmer  of  handsome  weapons ;  blood  horses  and 
great  white  dogs  like  those  seen  in  the  paintings  of 
Paolo  Veronese.  In  this  respect  I  am  a  regular  pagan 
and  I  do  not  worship  misshapen  gods,  although  at 
bottom  I  am  not  exactly  irreligious,  as  it  is  called ;  but 
in   point  of  fact  there  is   not   a  worse    Christian   than 

256 


«fv«   •*•    «*•    *»•     *»»»     •*•     •*•     «*»     m     •*•    *»•    •*•   •▼«•   «T»  •»>•  •*»    ot»   «*•   •*■  «*M   ««v    ««U    «r»  «.&• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

I.  I  cannot  understand  the  mortification  of  the  flesh 
which  is  the  very  essence  of  Christianity ;  to  me,  strik- 
ing at  God's  work  is  sacrilege,  and  I  cannot  believe 
that  flesh  is  evil  since  He  created  it  with  His  own 
hands  and  in  His  own  image.  I  do  not  much  like 
those  long  close  gowns  of  dark  stuff  from  which 
emerges  nothing  but  a  head  and  a  couple  of  hands, 
and  the  paintings  in  which  all  is  lost  in  shadow  save 
a  brow  that  shines  out.  I  want  sunshine  everywhere, 
as  much  light  and  as  little  shadow  as  possible,  bright 
colours,  undulating  lines,  a  proud  nudity  wTell  displayed, 
and  the  flesh  not  concealing  the  fact  of  its  existence, 
since,  just  as  much  as  the  soul,  it  is  an  eternal  hymn 
of  praise  to  God. 

I  can  quite  understand  the  mad  enthusiasm  of  the 
Greeks  for  beauty,  and  I  do  not  myself  see  anything 
absurd  in  the  law  which  compelled  judges  to  hear  the 
pleadings  of  advocates  in  a  dark  place  only,  lest  their 
good  looks  and  their  graceful  gestures  and  attitudes 
should  sway  the  court. 

I  would  not  buy  anything  from  an  ugly  saleswoman, 
and  I  give  alms  more  willingly  to  beggars  whose  rags 
and  emaciation  are  picturesque.  There  is  a  little  fever- 
stricken  Italian,  green   as  a  lime,  with  big  black-and- 


VOL.    I 


17  257 


*5*  ^^    ^i*^  ^5^  ^?*  *5^  *=^  ^2^  *fi^  ^S^  ^5^  *£&  ^ff^  ^5^  ^2^  ^5^  ^S^  t&^  ^2^  ^5^  ^2^  #*■■•  ^s^  ^l^ 

*»«  **•  «*•  «*•  «^PW  «R»  •*•  •«*  •*•  •**•  •**  •«•  •*»  «*»  •*«•  «*»  «*•  •*#  «*•  ••»  •*•  «*•  **•  «M 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

white  eyes  that  seem  to  fill  his  face,  and  looking  as  if 
he  were  an  unframed  Murillo  or  Spagnoletto  which  a 
dealer  has  stuck  up  against  a  post  —  he  always  gets  a 
couple  of  sous  more  than  the  others.  Never  would  I 
strike  a  handsome  horse  or  dog,  and  I  would  not  have 
a  friend  or  a  servant  of  an  unprepossessing  appearance. 
Ugly  things  and  ugly  people  are  a  torture  to  me.  Ar- 
chitecture in  bad  taste,  badly  designed  furniture,  pre- 
vent my  enjoying  myself  in  a  house,  comfortable  and 
attractive  though  it  may  be  in  other  respects.  The 
best  of  wine  seems  to  me  almost  inferior  in  a  mis- 
shapen glass,  and  I  own  I  should  prefer  the  most  Spar- 
tan of  broths  served  in  Palissy  enamel  to  the  finest 
game  on  common  earthenware.  Externals  have  always 
had  great  influence  upon  me  ;  hence  I  avoid  the  com- 
pany of  old  men.  Their  wrinkles  and  deformities 
sadden  and  affect  me  unpleasantly,  —  though  some 
of  them  have  a  beauty  of  their  own,  —  and  my  pity 
for  them  is  largely  made  up  of  disgust.  Of  all  ruins  in 
this  world,  the  saddest  to  behold  is  assuredly  the  ruin 
of  man. 

Were  I  a  painter  (and  I  have  always  regretted  that 
I  am  not),  none  but  goddesses,  nymphs,  madonnas, 
cherubs,  and  cupids  should   have  place  on   my  canvas. 


«§*e»t**JU  •*»  •JU  •£*  •&•  #£«  JU  »JU  •*»  «|»  *!•  e#»  *Jr»  4*  *4*  *g»  «j<  e*»  4<  el'*  e*-»efi-» 

•*•    •/»*     •*»     •*•     «W*      •*•     •*»      «tw      MU     V9»     «•     *••    •*»<•    •*•    •""•    •*»•    **•    **•    •*•    •*•    *"•     •**•    *•»•  •*• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  a  crime  of  lese-painting  to  de- 
vote one's  self  to  painting  portraits,  save  those  of  beau- 
tiful women  ;  and  far  from  desiring  to  multiply  ugly  or 
vile  faces,  insignificant  or  vulgar  heads,  1  would  rather 
have  the  originals  lose  them.  I  could  praise  Caligula's 
ferocity,  had  he  exercised  it  in  this  way. 

The  only  thing  on  earth  I  have  ever  wished  for 
somewhat  continuously  is  to  be  handsome.  By  that  I 
mean  handsome  as  Paris  or  Apollo.  Manly  beauty 
does  not  mean  simply  that  a  man  is  not  deformed,  has 
nearly  regular  features,  —  nose  in  the  middle  of  the 
face,  neither  flat  nor  hooked,  eyes  neither  red  nor 
bleary,  a  mouth  of  proper  size.  If  that  were  manly 
beauty,  then  I  possess  it,  but  I  consider  myself  as  far 
removed  from  my  ideal  of  virile  beauty  as  if  I  were 
one  of  those  figures  which  strike  the  hour  on  church 
clocks  ;  if  I  had  hummocks  for  shoulders,  bandy  legs 
like  a  basset's,  a  nose  and  mouth  like  a  monkey's,  I 
should  approach  as  nearly  to  it  as  I  do  now.  Many  a 
time  have  I  looked  at  myself  for  hours  at  a  stretch,  in 
a  mirror,  with  unimaginable  fixedness  and  attention,  to 
see  whether  my  face  had  improved  at  all.  I  expect 
the  lines  to  shift  or  to  straighten  or  to  curve  more 
delicately  and  accurately,  mine  eyes  to  light  up  and  to 

259 


•J/%  #**  «si.  *JU  ««*  *§*  #|U  »l/t  *§»  »Jt*  «"**  «*»«l««|««Jf**|^**«*|^«4««4*«§«  *|*  «4»*% 

a^*   %"«*    ««    •**    •<**     *<*#    •*»     *T»     •*•     •»•    *1»    •*•  WiW   **>•  WW*  •«<•   «mM  •/«*   *r\»   *tv»   »**    «i*»    %*»  •*<• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

be  more  brilliantly  humid,  the  deep  depression  between 
my  brow  and  my  nose  to  fill  up,  my  profile  to  thus 
assume  the  simplicity  and  repose  of  the  Greek  profile ; 
and  I  am  always  greatly  surprised  that  nothing  of  all 
this  happens.  I  go  on  hoping  that  some  spring  or 
another  I  shall  shed  this  old  outward  man  of  mine  as  a 
serpent  sheds  its  old  skin.  To  think  that  I  shall  never 
be  handsome,  though  it  would  take  so  little  to  make 
me  so  !  Why,  the  half,  the  hundredth,  the  thousandth 
part  of  a  line  more  or  less  here  or  there,  less  flesh  on 
this  bone,  more  on  that  —  a  painter  or  a  sculptor  would 
have  managed  it  in  half  an  hour.  What  could  it  mat- 
ter to  the  atoms  of  which  I  am  composed  whether  they 
crystallised  in  one  fashion  or  another?  What  mat- 
tered it  to  this  contour  to  swell  out  here  or  to  sink  in 
there?  What  necessity  was  there  that  I  should  be 
thus,  and  not  otherwise  ?  Upon  my  word,  if  I  had  my 
hand  on  Chance's  throat  I  think  I  should  strangle  her. 
Because  a  wretched  atom  of  something  or  other  took  a 
fancy  to  falling  I  know  not  where,  and  to  stupidly  turn 
into  the  awkward  figure  that  I  am,  I  am  doomed  to 
eternal  misery.  Is  not  that  the  most  amazingly  stupid 
and  wicked  thing  on  earth  ?  Why  is  it  that  my  soul, 
intensely  though    it    longs    to   do   so,  cannot  drop  the 

260 


'•! m  J*  tAt  el/»  »§*  «JU  #JU  #JU  #*•  *JU  «A»  ^a»#l»  #£•  «J*  *X»  «JL*  #*•  •*•  •*%  •*•  *l»  ♦§•  •*• 

«^>*   •**»    wfv*    •>*>•     •*«     «*«     «*»     •*«     •»«     •%•     «^»     •»•   •<»•    •*•   •>»»•  •*«•    »tw   V—    •*>*   •*•   «*»"»    •<*»    ^»  v*« 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

pitiful  cadaver  it  keeps  going,  and  vivify  instead  one  of 
those  statues  whose  exquisite  beauty  attracts  and  de- 
lights it  ?  Did  I  but  know  the  formula  of  the  trans- 
migration of  souls,  there  are  two  or  three  persons 
whom  it  would  give  me  infinite  pleasure  to  murder. 
I  have  always  felt  that,  in  order  to  do  what  I  want  to 
do  (though  I  do  not  know  what  it  is),  I  need  very 
remarkable  and  perfect  beauty,  and  I  fancy  that,  did  I 
possess  it,  my  life,  now  such  a  mass  of  complications 
and  annoyances,  would  have  flowed  on  smoothly  and 
peacefully. 

There  are  so  many  beautiful  faces  in  paintings  — 
why  is  not  one  of  them  mine  ?  There  are  so  many 
lovely  heads  disappearing  under  the  dust  and  grime  of 
time  in  old  galleries  —  would  it  not  be  better  for  them 
to  leave  their  frames  and  show  radiantly  upon  my 
shoulders  ?  Would  Raphael's  reputation  greatly  suffer 
if  one  of  the  angels  whom  he  has  set  swarming  in  the 
ether  of  his  paintings,  were  to  lend  me  his  face  for 
thirty  years  ?  There  are  so  many  of  the  finest  parts 
of  his  frescoes  which  have  scaled  off"  and  fallen  through 
age.  No  one  would  miss  what  I  got.  What  are  all 
those  silent  beauties,  on  whom  the  common  herd  of 
men   scarcely  casts   a   passing  glance,  doing  on   those 

261 


*4»  *§»  -4»  •A*  «4*  *4*  *4%  *4*  *|*  JU  ♦A*  #A»  *!••!•  •|«#l*«4*»A%#li»  «1»«|«  **»  ♦*»*?*♦ 

«**•  am*   «*•   v*.    Jg»    mm   mm    m»    **»    *S*    •*•    «w#  •*•»  •**•  **•  *■*>•  •*•  •*»  «iW  mm  «*•   «9i  v**  •*« 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

walls  ?  And  why  is  God,  or  Chance,  not  clever  enough 
to  do  what  a  man  manages  to  do  with  a  few  hairs  at 
the  end  of  a  stick  and  a  few  bits  of  different-coloured 
paste  thinned  out  on  a  piece  of  board  ? 

The  first  feeling  I  experience  in  presence  of  one 
of  those  wondrous  heads  whose  glance,  the  painter's 
work,  seems  to  plunge  through  you  into  the  infinite, 
is  emotion  and  an  admiration  not  wholly  free  from 
terror.  The  tears  rise  to  my  eyes,  my  heart  beats 
loud.  Then,  when  I  have  familiarized  myself  some- 
what with  the  face,  and  have  penetrated  more  deeply 
the  secret  of  its  beauty,  I  silently  compare  it  with  my- 
self; jealousy  writhes  within  my  soul  more  actively 
than  viper  writhes,  and  I  have  the  greatest  difficulty  in 
refraining  from  springing  at  the  painting  and  tearing  it 
to  pieces. 

To  be  beautiful,  handsome,  means  that  you  possess 
a  power  which  makes  all  smile  upon  and  welcome  you ; 
that  everybody  is  impressed  in  your  favour  and  inclined 
to  be  of  your  opinion  ;  that  you  have  only  to  pass 
through  a  street  or  to  show  yourself  at  a  balcony  to 
make  friends  and  to  win  mistresses  from  among  those 
who  look  upon  you.  What  a  splendid,  what  a  magni- 
ficent  gift   is  that   which  spares  you   the  need   to  be 

262 


&  ±  4;  &  i:  £  db  &  ±  i:  &&££:&£££:  :H::S?  4:  £:& 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

amiable  in  order  to  be  loved,  which  relieves  you  of 
the  need  of  being  clever  and  ready  to  serve,  which 
you  must  be  if  ugly,  and  enables  you  to  dispense 
with  the  innumerable  moral  qualities  which  you  must 
possess  in  order  to  make  up  for  the  lack  of  personal 
beauty. 

What  more  could  a  man  desire  who  should  unite  the 
highest  beauty  to  the  greatest  physical  strength,  who 
with  the  limbs  and  features  of  Antinoiis  enjoyed  the 
vigour  of  Hercules  ?  I  am  sure  that  with  these  two 
gifts  and  the  soul  I  possess  I  should  be  ruler  of  the 
world   in  less  than  three  months. 

There  is  one  other  gift  I  have  yearned  for  almost  as 
much  as  for  beauty  and  strength,  —  the  power  of  pass- 
ing from  one  place  to  another  with  the  speed  of  thought. 
Were  I  fair  as  the  angels,  strong  as  a  tiger,  swift  as  an 
eagle,  I  would  think  the  world  not  as  badly  put  together 
as  I  do  at  present.  Beauty  of  face  to  seduce  and  fas- 
cinate my  prey,  wings  with  which  to  swoop  down  upon 
it,  and  talons  with  which  to  rend  it  —  as  long  as  I  lack 
these,  I  shall  be  unhappy. 

My  every  passion,  my  every  taste  has  been  but  a 
disguise  assumed  by  these  three  desires.  I  have  loved 
arms,  horses,  and  women :    arms,  to  make  up  for  the 

263 


*jU  JU  JU  •!/•  JU  «4U  •!/•  #!/» «|r»  •*•  *&»  *A»«4U  •§•  •*%  #1»  rj*.  «i*  «4U  «I*  #1*  «!•  +1**1? 

VW*    */4\»      •*.      V**      .TO*      •W      «Si       *4W       W*W      «5»      *7*      •**    *W     *BV»    «»    WW*    •««    v^,    ,jR,    *&*    WfW     «^*     wj  I^J 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

vigour  I  lack ;  horses,  to  bear  me  along  as  on  wings ; 
women,  to  possess  in  some  one  at  least  the  beauty  which 
I  have  not.  I  sought  by  preference  the  most  ingen- 
iously murderous  weapons,  those  making  incurable 
wounds.  I  have  never  had  occasion  to  use  a  creese  or 
a  yataghan ;  nevertheless,  I  like  to  have  them  about 
me;  I  draw  them  from  the  sheath  with  an  indescrib- 
able feeling  of  strength  and  security ;  I  practise  very 
energetically  with  them,  and  if  I  happen,  at  such  a  time, 
to  catch  the  reflection  of  my  face  in  a  mirror,  I  am 
amazed  at  its  ferocious  expression.  As  for  horses,  I 
ride  them  so  hard  that  if  they  do  not  founder  under 
me,  I  want  to  know  the  reason  why.  If  I  had  not 
given  up  riding  Ferragus,  he  would  be  dead  long  ago, 
which  would  be  a  pity,  for  he  is  a  fine  horse.  What 
Arab  steed  can  speed  as  fast  as  my  desires  ?  In  women, 
I  have  cared  for  the  outward  form  only,  and  as,  up  till 
now,  those  I  have  seen  are  far  from  coming  up  to  my 
ideal  of  beauty,  I  have  gone  back  to  statues  and  pictures 
—  a  pretty  poor  resource,  after  all,  when  one  is  as  hot- 
blooded  as  I  am.  There  is,  however,  something  noble 
and  fine  in  loving  a  statue ;  such  love  is  quite  disinter- 
ested, and  fears  neither  the  satiety  nor  the  disgust  of  vic- 
tory, since  the  repetition  of  the  story  of  Pygmalion  is 

264 


#i««l*  *l*  «J/»  •l*  »A»  *!«•  #!<*  r*^  •**  «JU  •»» #J<»  #4*  •!*  «X»  JU  *£•  el»  •£••»•  •A©  •£*•£• 

•m  •<«•    •*•    VS#    •*•     vfe    «ts»    •*•     til*    •*•    •*•    •»*  •T*  •»•  •*•  •*»  •*•  ***•  •*•  •*•  •»»««»•'*••** 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

not  in   reason   to  be    expected.      The    impossible  has 
always  charmed  me. 

Is  it  not  strange  that  I,  who  am  still  in  the  bloom  of 
my  youth,  who,  far  from  having  gone  to  excess  in 
anything,  have  not  made  use  of  the  simplest  things  even, 
should  have  reached  a  state  of  such  weary  disillusion- 
ment that  I  cannot  be  stirred  save  by  what  is  extraor- 
dinary or  difficult  ?  That  satiety  should  follow  pleasure 
is  a  natural  and  intelligible  law.  Nothing  is  easier  to 
understand  than  that  a  man  who  has  eaten  abundantly 
of  every  dish  at  a  feast  should  not  be  hungry,  and  should 
endeavour  to  excite  his  fatigued  appetite  with  hot  con- 
diments or  heating  wines ;  but  that  a  man  who  has 
barely  sat  down  to  table,  and  who  has  scarcely  touched 
the  first  course  or  two,  should  at  once  experience  that 
disdainful  disgust,  be  unable  to  touch,  without  feeling 
nauseated,  any  dishes  not  highly  spiced,  and  should  care 
only  for  meat  that  is  very  gamey,  for  very  ripe  cheese, 
and  particularly  dry  wines,  —  that  is  a  phenomenon  due 
to  a  peculiar  constitution ;  it  is  as  if  a  six-months- 
old  baby  were  to  refuse  its  nurse's  milk  and  to  insist  on 
being  given  brandy  only.  I  am  as  weary  as  if  I  had 
performed  all  the  marvellous  deeds  of  Sardanapalus,  and 
yet  my  life  has  been  outwardly  chaste  and  quiet.      It  is 

265 


*4**4»  *4»  »A*  •*•  *A»  «4*  *s*  «lr*  *J*  «4»«A*<^»<^»  «#♦*!?»  **"»«*»  «>a^«4*«4»  «*»  *s,»«J'» 

•"*»  •*•    <*r*    •«•    mm    mi    wn>    •*»    «5U    ^U    «$»    i«*  «/?»  •**»  •*•  o«w  •*»  waa  «r»  •«•  •*»    **w  «*•  «/rn 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

a  mistake  to  suppose  that  possession  is  the  only  road 
that  leads  to  satiety  \  a  desire  such  as  mine  is  far  more 
exhausting.  Its  glance  embraces  and  penetrates  the 
object  it  yearns  for  and  that  shines  above  him,  more 
swiftly  and  more  thoroughly  than  if  it  touched  it,  for 
what  could  the  use  of  it  teach  him  further,  and  what 
experiment  can  come  up  to  that  constant,  passionate 
contemplation  ? 

I  have  gone  through  so  many  things,  though  it  is 
but  few  that  I  have  seen  all  round,  that  the  steepest 
peaks  alone  tempt  me  now.  I  suffer  from  the  malady 
which  attacks  strong  nations  and  strong  men  as  they 
grow  old — the  impossible.  Nothing  I  can  do  inter- 
ests me.  I  suffer  as  you  suffered,  Tiberius,  Caligula, 
Nero,  great  Romans  of  the  Empire,  so  misunderstood 
and  pursued  by  the  yelping  pack  of  rhetoricians,  and  I 
pity  you  with  all  the  power  of  pity  left  me.  I  too 
would  like  to  bridge  the  sea  and  pave  the  waves ;  I 
have  thought  of  burning  cities  to  light  up  my  feasts  ;  I 
have  wished  to  be  a  woman  in  order  to  know  new  forms 
of  voluptuousness.  Thy  gilded  house,  O  Nero,  is  but 
a  filthy  stable  in  comparison  with  the  palace  I  have 
built  for  myself.  My  wardrobe  is  fuller  than  thine, 
Heliogabalus,    and    infinitely   finer.     My  circuses    are 

266 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 


fuller  of  roars  and  blood  than  yours,  my  perfumes 
more  penetrating  and  stronger,  my  slaves  mo/e  numer- 
ous and  handsomer.  I  too  have  harnessed  naked  cour- 
tesans to  my  car  and  trodden  on  men  as  haughtily  as 
you.  How  many  Babels  have  I  not  heaped  one 
upon  another  to  reach  the  heavens,  insult  the  stars, 
and  spit  upon  the  earth  from  on  high  !  Why  am  I  not 
God  — since  man  I  cannot  be  ? 

I  believe  it  will  take  a  hundred  thousand  centuries 
of  nothingness  to  rest  me  after  the  fatigue  of  my  twenty 
years  of  life.  God  of  heaven,  what  stone  shall  you  roll 
upon  me  ?  into  what  darkness  shall  you  plunge  me  ?  of 
what  Lethe  shall  you  make  me  drink  ?  under  what 
mountain  shall  you  bury  the  Titan  ?  Is  it  to  be  my  fate 
to  vomit  flames  out  of  my  mouth,  and  to  cause  earth- 
quakes by  rolling  over  on  one  side  ? 

When  I  remember  what  a  gentle,  meek  woman  was 
my  mother,  with  simple  tastes  and  ways,  I  am  quite 
surprised  I  did  not  kill  her  when  she  bore  me.  How 
comes  it  that  not  one  of  her  pure,  calm  thoughts  was 
transferred  into  my  being  with  the  life  she  gave  me, 
and  why  am  I  the  child  of  her  flesh  only,  and  not  of  her 
mind  also  ?  The  dove  has  brought  forth  a  tiger  that 
wants  the  whole  world  for  a  prey. 

267 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

I  have  lived  in  the  quietest  and  chastest  surround- 
ings. It  is  difficult  to  conceive  of  a  life  in  a  purer 
setting  than  mine,  spent,  as  it  has  been,  by  my 
mother's  chair  in  the  company  of  my  sisters  and  the 
house  dog.  I  have  seen  round  me  but  the  kindly  and 
calm  faces  of  the  old  servants  grown  grey  in  our  ser- 
vice, and  who  had  become  hereditary  retainers,  as  it 
were ;  serious  and  sententious  relatives  and  friends, 
dressed  in  black,  who  laid  down  their  gloves,  the  one 
after  the  other,  on  the  brim  of  their  hat;  a  few  middle- 
aged  aunts,  plump,  clean,  discreet,  with  linen  daz- 
zlingly  white,  grey  skirts,  thread  mittens,  and  their 
hands  clasped  nun-fashion  before  them ;  furniture  so 
sober  as  to  be  gloomy,  wainscoting  of  bare  oak, 
leather  hangings,  an  interior  sober  and  subdued,  such 
as  some  Flemish  painters  have  represented  at  times. 
The  garden  was  damp  and  shady ;  the  box  that  out- 
lined the  beds,  the  ivy  that  clothed  the  walls,  and  a  few 
bare-limbed  firs  were  expected  to  represent  its  green- 
ery, and  failed  almost  completely ;  the  house,  built  of 
brick,  with  a  high  pitched  roof,  was,  though  spacious 
and  in  good  condition,  rather  gloomy  and  sleepy.  Cer- 
tainly nothing  could  be  more  conducive  to  a  quiet, 
austere,    melancholy    life    than     such    a    dwelling.      It 

268 


•£/•  c&»  #j|*  »JU  «f*  rl,  «!/«  «J*  «JU»  «JL»  •!*  •!*#&«  #&•  «JL»  #JU  *£»  «1*  *!«  #&»  *£«  Ju  •*•  fl* 

•»»*  «*»w   •*»   w*w    «*•    vn    mh    «r»    •*«    «*»    •*•    iW»  *r»  «T»  •»•  •«"•  •*•  w  *vm  •*•  •»•   •*>*  wr»  «*w 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

would  seem  as  if  children  brought  up   in  it  could  not 
fail  to  become  priests  or  nuns.      Well,  in  that  atmo- 
sphere of  purity  and   peace,  in  that   shadow   and  quiet, 
I  was  rotting  little  by   little,   without  its  showing  out- 
wardly, like  an  apple  on  straw.      In  the  very  bosom  of 
that  honest,  pious,  holy  family   I  had  reached  a  condi- 
tion of  horrible  depravation.      It  was  not  through  con- 
tact with  the  world,  for  I  had  not  seen  it,  nor  through 
over-excited  passions,  for  I  was  chilled  to  the  marrow 
by  the  good  old  damp  walls.     The  worm  had  not  come 
to  my  heart  out  of  another  fruit.      It  had  been  born  of 
itself  in    the    very    midbt   of    my  being,  which  it  had 
gnawed  and  traversed  in  every  direction.      Outwardly, 
nothing  was  apparent  to  warn  me  that  I  was  becoming 
corrupt.      I  had  neither  stain  nor  mark  of  sting,  but  I 
was  hollow  within,  a  thin  pellicle,  brilliantly  coloured, 
but  which  the  least  shock  would  burst.      Is  it  not  amaz- 
ing that   a  child  born  of  virtuous  parents,  brought  up 
carefully  and   discreetly,  kept   from   every    evil   thing, 
should   corrupt    himself  to  such   a  degree  and   should 
reach  the  point  I  have  reached  ?      I  am  sure  that  if  one 
were  to  go  back  to  the  sixth  generation  of  my  ances- 
tors not  a  single  atom  like  those  of  which  I  am  formed 
would  be  found.      I  do  not  belong  to  my  family  ;   I  am 

269 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

not  a  limb  of  that  noble  trunk,  but  a  poisonous  mush- 
room that  grew  between  its  moss-eovered  roots  during 
a  close,  stormy  night ;  and  yet  no  one  has  more 
than  myself  yearned  and  longed  for  the  beautiful, 
no  one  has  more  striven  to  rise,  though  every  attempt 
but  made  me  fall  lower,  and  my  salvation  became  my 
destruction. 

Although  I  prefer  solitude  to  society,  it  is  worse  for 
me  than  the  latter.  Whatever  takes  me  out  of  myself 
is  healthful  to  me  ;  society  bores  me,  but  forcibly  takes 
me  from  the  empty  reverie  in  which  I  move  up  and 
down  with  folded  arms  and  bent  brows.  So,  since  our 
tete-a-tete  has  been  broken  up  and  there  are  guests  here 
with  whom  I  am  forced  to  constrain  myself  somewhat,  I 
am  less  subject  to  fits  of  depression,  and  less  tormented 
by  those  exaggerated  desires  which  swoop  down  on  me 
like  a  flock  of  vultures  as  soon  as  I  am  unoccupied  for 
a  moment.  There  are  a  few  rather  pretty  women  and 
one  or  two  rather  pleasant  and  very  jolly  fellows ;  but 
of  all  that  swarm  of  bumpkins,  the  one  who  most  charms 
me  is  a  young  gentleman  who  arrived  two  or  three  days 
ago.  I  took  a  fancy  to  him  at  once,  and  merely  to 
watch  him  dismount  made  me  fond  of  him.  No  one 
could  be  more  graceful.      He  is  not  very  tall,  but  well 

270 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

turned  and  of  a  handsome  figure  ;  he  has  an  indescrib- 
ably delightful  soft  undulation  in  his  walk  and  gestures, 
and  many  a  woman  would  be  glad  to  own  as  small  a 
hand  and  foot  as  his.  His  only  defect  is  that  he  is  too 
handsome  and  too  delicate-featured  for  a  man.  He  has 
a  pair  of  the  handsomest  dark  eyes  in  the  world,  with 
an  indefinable  expression  in  them  and  a  look  that  it 
is  difficult  to  meet,  but  as  he  is  quite  young  and  has 
not  a  trace  of  hair  on  his  face,  the  roundness  and  per- 
fection of  the  lower  part  of  his  face  temper  somewhat 
the  brilliancy  of  his  eagle  glance.  His  long,  brown, 
glossy  hair  falls  in  great  curls  upon  his  neck  and  gives 
a  very  peculiar  character  to  his  face. 

At  last  I  have  seen  in  the  flesh  and  walking  before 
me  one  of  the  types  of  beauty  I  have  dreamed  of! 
What  a  pity  that  he  is  a  man,  or  else  that  I  am  not  a 
woman  !  This  Adonis,  who  joins  to  his  handsome 
face  a  very  bright  and  comprehensive  wit,  has  the 
further  advantage  of  speaking  his  clever  sayings  and 
his  pleasantries  in  a  voice  so  silvery  and  striking 
in  tone  that  one  can  scarce  listen  to  him  without 
emotion.  He  is  really  perfection.  He  appears  to 
share  my  taste  for  fine  things,  for  his  clothes  are 
very    rich    and   in   the    best   taste,  his   horse    a   spirited 

271 


•J*  #4*  *ir»  •«'«  •»*  •*»  •£'•  *■!/■«  *£*  *sf»  •*•  *§*»**  «**  •*»  **»  *&•  «**  *^»  #A*  *s*  e*»  •*«  dU 
•»»>•  *™>#    «*    *t»    **•    *rv»    wrw    •-*»    «t*    »r*    *«■*    •**  <W*  tr»  *w  •<*<•  ot*  •/*•  wtW  »*»•  »t»    •*•   %^»  «£v> 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

thorough-bred,  and,  in  order  that  the  whole  thing 
should  be  well  and  suitably  rounded  off,  he  had,  riding 
behind  him  on  a  cob,  a  page  of  fourteen  to  fifteen,  fail, 
rosy,  and  as  pretty  as  a  cherub,  half-asleep  and  so  tired 
out  by  the  ride  that  his  master  had  to  lift  him  off  his 
saddle  and  to  carry  him  in  his  arms  to  his  room. 
Rosette  received  him  warmly,  and  I  fancy  intends 
making  use  of  him  to  awaken  jealousy  in  me  and  thus 
cause  to  flame  out  whatever  fire  may  yet  be  burning 
under  the  ashes  of  my  dead  passion.  Yet,  formidable 
as  such  a  rival  is,  I  am  little  disposed  to  be  jealous  of 
him,  and  I  feel  so  drawn  toward  him  that  I  would 
gladly  enough  give  up  my  love  to  gain  his  friendship. 


272 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

»%%  •**  *i»  «J/»  «A»  #4*  •*'•  ♦I'*  **»  **•  •*»•«••»•  ««•  •*•  •«•  •»•  •§*  ••»  •*•  •»•  •*•  «jU«s« 

«*•   «m»    «r»    vn    V«U     vn    «*•     «r*     *fw     i^>     *T*     •*»   «r»    v**   ■»•  •*>•    <**•   v—   Jvm   Vpe   «Tw    aftU    •$»  v£» 

VI 

AT  this  point  we  shall,  with  the  gentle  reader's 
permission,  leave  to  his  reveries  the  worthy 
personage  who  has,  up  to  this  time,  monopo- 
lized the  stage  and  spoken  for  himself,  and  return  to 
the  ordinary  form  of  the  novel  —  without  prejudice  to 
our  resumption  of  the  dramatic  form,  if  need  be;  re- 
serving also  the  right  of  dipping  again  in  that  manner 
of  epistolary  confession  which  the  aforesaid  young 
gentleman  addressed  to  his  friend,  convinced  as  we 
are  that,  notwithstanding  our  penetration  and  sagacity, 
we  know  less  on  the  subject  than  he  does. 

The  little  page  was  so  completely  tired  out  that 
he  slept  in  his  master's  arms,  and  his  little  head, 
with  its  disordered  hair,  rolled  to  and  fro  as  though 
he  were  dead.  It  was  quite  a  distance  from  the 
outer  stairs  to  the  room  assigned  to  the  new  arrival, 
and  the  servant  who  showed  him  the  way  offered 
to  carry  the  lad  in  his  turn,  but  the  young  gentle- 
man, for  whom  the  burden  seemed  to  be  light  as  a 
feather,   thanked    him    and    refused.       He    placed    the 


VOL.    I 


273 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

lad  very  gently  on  the  sofa  and  took  the  greatest 
care  not  to  wake  him  ;  no  mother  could  have  done 
better.  When  the  servant  had  withdrawn  and  the 
door  was  shut,  he  knelt  before  him  and  tried  to  pull 
off  his  boots ;  but  the  operation  was  rendered  diffi- 
cult by  the  little  feet  being  swollen  and  painful,  and 
the  pretty  sleeper  uttered  from  time  to  time  inarticu- 
late half-sighs,  like  one  about  to  awake  \  when  this 
occurred  the  young  gentleman  stopped  and  waited 
till  the  lad  was  asleep  again.  At  last  the  boots  came 
off  and  the  worst  was  done,  for  the  stockings  were 
taken  off  readily.  Having  completed  this,  the  mas- 
ter took  the  lad's  two  feet  and  placed  them  on  the 
velvet  of  the  sofa ;  these  feet  were  the  shapeliest 
that  could  be  seen  and  quite,  quite  tiny,  white  as 
new  ivory,  and  somewhat  flushed,  thanks  to  the  pres- 
sure of  the  boots  for  some  seventeen  hours.  They 
were  too  small  for  a  woman's  feet  and  seemed  never 
to  have  been  walked  on.  What  little  was  seen  of  the 
ankle  was  round,  plump,  polished,  translucent,  and 
marked  by  the  blue  veins,  —  an  exquisitely  fair  ankle 
worthy  of  the  foot. 

The  young  gentleman,  still   kneeling,  looked   most 
lovingly  and  admiringly  upon  those  two  little  feet.     He 

274 


Jt»  *jh  •*•  +t~  *§•  «!*  4U  *!'•  «4»  *A»  «Jt*  •&••£*  #1*  JL  «J*  *A»  •£•  «|*  «4»  •!•  •!*  •!«  *!♦ 

«mU   »"*#    •*•    »*•    wv*     »«•    ***     »■*     mm     arr*    «■*    «*•  •*<•   vri  •>*<•  **v»    w«  vm   wc*   •"»<•   •*•    »1»»    *ir»  <«i 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

bent  down,  took  hold  of  the  left  one  and  kissed  it ; 
then  of  the  right  one  and  kissed  it  also ;  thereafter 
with  successive  kisses  he  proceeded  up  the  leg  to 
near  the  knee.  The  page  half  opened  his  long  eye- 
lashes, and  with  a  glance  at  his  master  at  once  loving 
and  sleepy,  but  which  did  not  denote  surprise,  u  My 
belt  hurts  me,"  he  said,  passing  a  finger  under  the 
ribbon  and  going  to  sleep  again.  His  master  un- 
did the  belt,  put  a  pillow  under  the  lad's  head,  and 
finding  that  his  feet,  a  moment  since  so  hot,  were 
now  somewhat  cold,  he  wrapped  them  carefully  in 
his  cloak,  drew  up  an  arm-chair  and  sat  down  close 
by  the  sofa.  Two  hours  thus  went  by  ;  the  young 
gentleman  watching  the  sleeping  page  and  the  shad- 
ows of  dreams  upon  his  brow.  No  sound  was  heard 
in  the  room  save  the  lad's  regular  breathing  and  the 
ticking  of  the  clock. 

Unquestionably  the  picture  the  pair  made  was 
lovely.  A  good  painter  would  have  turned  to  ac- 
count the  possibilities  of  effect  in  the  contrast  of  the 
two  kinds  of  beauty.  The  master  was  beautiful  with 
a  woman's  beauty  ;  the  page  with  a  girl's  loveliness. 
His  round,  rosy  face,  framed  in  by  his  hair,  looked 
like  a  peach    surrounded   by    leaves ;    spite  of  the  fa- 

275 


•4*  •!•  ««•  •!(•  •*»  *4*  *4*  *4»  •!*  •!*  *4»»ia»*»«4»  <4««4*«4*<4«  *!*•!*  »4*»  •!•  ♦!••!• 

•w*  •/«•    «<gw    «*•    «f*     »*•    effv.     «••     «*•    «*•    a*t    awe  «|w  «*w  «•*<*  «**•   «yr»  vr«  wr#  «f*   •**»    MM    »f«  «/t%» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

tigue  of  travel  having  robbed  it  of  some  of  its  bril- 
liancy, it  had  all  the  freshness  and  bloom  of  the  fruit. 
The  parted  lips  revealed  small,  milk-white  teeth,  and 
a  network  of  blue  veins  marked  the  full  and  shining 
temples  ;  the  eyelashes,  like  to  the  golden  rays  that 
adorn  in  missals  the  heads  of  virgins,  came  nearly 
half-way  down  his  cheeks ;  his  long  silky  hair  was 
at  once  golden  and  silvery  —  golden  in  the  shadow, 
silvery  in  the  light.  The  neck  was  both  slender 
and  plump,  and  did  not  appear  to  belong  to  the  sex 
the  clothing  indicated  ;  two  or  three  buttons  of  the 
tunic,  unbuttoned  to  allow  of  freer  breathing,  enabled 
one  to  catch  sight,  through  a  partly  opened  shirt  of 
fine  Holland  linen,  of  the  plump  and  wonderfully 
white  bosom  and  the  beginning  of  a  certain  round 
outline  difficult  to  understand  in  a  youth's  chest. 
Close  observation  might  have  led  one  to  think  the  hips 
rather  full.  The  reader  may  draw  his  own  conclu- 
sions ;  we  merely  suggest,  for  we  are  no  wiser  than 
he  on  this  point,  though  we  do  hope  to  learn  more 
soon  and  promise  to  keep  him  informed  of  our  dis- 
coveries. Let  the  reader,  if  less  short-sighted  than  we 
are,  glance  under  the  lace  of  that  shirt  and  decide  for 
himself  whether  that  contour  swells  too  much  or  not ; 

276 


«§*  *£**£•  *£/•  *&•  *4*  •»•  *L»  *k  *A*  •A*  »4»  *^»  •!*  ^  •*»  *k  •*»  »4*  «4*  **•  •*•  •*»*I* 

•*•  •*•    «*«    wr»    •*•     **m    «*«     »r»     wvt»    •*«    n»    *»•  m  «iv  *m  ww    »<*•  ***   vr«   •♦»   •»»    mm    «*•  *«» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

but  we  must  warn  him  that  the  curtains  are  drawn 
and  that  the  room  is  filled  with  a  semi-obscurity  not 
very  favourable  to  this  sort  of  investigation. 

The  gentleman  himself  was  pale,  but  of  a  virile, 
vigorous,  golden  pallor  \  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  moved 
in  a  humid  azure ;  his  thin,  straight  nose  gave  to  his 
profile  striking  pride  and  strength,  and  the  flesh  was 
so  thin  as  to  be  translucent  at  the  edges ;  his  mouth, 
which  smiled  most  sweetly  at  times,  was  usually 
curved  at  the  corners,  but  in  rather  than  out,  as  on 
some  of  the  heads  in  the  pictures  of  the  old  Italian 
masters.  This  gave  him  an  adorably  disdainful  look, 
a  most  piquant  smorfia,  an  air  of  childish  pouting  and 
temper  at  once  most  striking  and  most  enchanting. 

What  was  the  nature  of  the  bonds  uniting  master 
and  page  ?  There  certainly  existed  between  them  a 
greater  affection  than  that  which  may  exist  between 
master  and  domestic.  Were  they  friends  or  brothers  ? 
In  that  case  why  the  disguise  ?  Yet  it  would  have 
been  difficult  for  any  one  who  had  witnessed  the 
scene  just  described  to  believe  that  the  pair  were 
really   what  they  appeared  to  be. 

"  The  dear  one,  sound  asleep ! "  whispered  the 
young    man    to    himself.       "  I    do    believe    he    never 

277 


A%  •>!*  JU  •!<*  •!*  ♦!»  •!/•  #4*  •!•  ^*i*#i/«#J*«i«44*»JU*t«*l»*i*«l**l*  *!••!•  «^* 

VS*  •/*•    *r*    vrt    «**     vv»    «*»     vr*     mm    «**    **»    •*•  *•**  •*»  •>*•  «v\»   vm  «m  **v»  *Xr»  vr*    •*»   •*•  •>•«• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

travelled  so  far  in  his  life,  sixty  miles  on  horseback, 
and  so  frail !  I  am  afraid  the  fatigue  will  make  him 
ill  —  but  surely  not ;  it  will  all  be  gone  by  morning. 
His  lovely  colour  will  have  come  back  and  he  will 
look  fresher  than  a  rose  after  a  rain.  But  is  he  not 
a  beauty  !  If  I  were  not  afraid  of  waking  him,  I 
would  whelm  him  with  caresses.  What  a  lovely 
dimple  in  his  chin,  and  what  a  delicate,  white  skin. 
Sleep  sound,  dear  treasure.  I  am  positively  jealous 
of  your  mother  and  I  wish  you  were  my  child.  You 
are  not  ill,  are  you  ?  No,  his  breathing  is  regular,  and 
he  does  not  move.      But  is  not  that  a  knock  —  ? 5: 

Some  one  had,  indeed,  knocked  twice,  as  softly  as 
possible,  on  the  door  panel. 

The  young  gentleman  rose,  but,  lest  he  should  have 
been  mistaken,  waited,  before  opening  the  door,  until 
the  call  was  repeated.  Two  other  knocks,  somewhat 
sharper,  were  heard  and  a  woman's  soft  voice  whis- 
pered very  gently,  "  It  is  I,  Theodore." 

Theodore  opened  the  door,  but  less  eagerly  than  a 
young  man  is  wont  to  open  to  a  soft-voiced  woman 
who  comes  mysteriously  knocking  at  the  close  of 
day.  The  half-opened  leaf  gave  entrance  to  — 
guess   whom  —  to    the    mistress    of    perplexed    d'Al- 

278 


•&%•§»*!*  «JU  »i/»  JU  •!/•  JU  •&•  •1*«1*«|«#£»«§««1*«I««^*|«*^  •§•*§••§•  #§••£• 

•»\*  •»«•    ««^    »*•    •*•     » J~    •«*     «T-     «*•    •*•     «*•    ««w  vr«    -T»  •»<•  •*»    •*•  *«•   •*>•   •<•<•  «*•    «Bb   «*•  «*"■ 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

bert,  to  Princess  Rosette  herself,  rosier  than  her  name 
and  with  bosoms  a's  swelled  as  ever  woman's  who 
entered  at  eve  a  handsome   man's  room. 

"Theodore,"  said  Rosette. 

Theodore  put  his  ringer  to  his  lips  like  a  statue  of 
silence,  and  pointing  to  the  sleeping  lad,  made  Rosette 
pass  into  the  next  room. 

"  Theodore,"  said  Rosette,  who  seemed  to  take 
peculiarly  sweet  delight  in  uttering  the  name,  and  to 
seek  at  the  same  time  to  collect  her  ideas,  "Theo- 
dore," she  continued,  still  holding  the  hand  the  young 
man  had  offered  her  to  lead  her  to  the  armchair,  "  so 
you  have  come  back  at  last  ?  What  have  you  been  do- 
ing all  this  time  ?  Where  have  you  been  ?  Do  you 
know  that  it  is  six  months  since  I  have  seen  you  ? 
That  is  not  right,  Theodore.  You  owe  to  people  who 
love  you,  even  if  you  do  not  love  them,  some  atten- 
tion and  a  little  pity." 

Theodore.  What  have  I  been  doing  ?  I  do  not 
know.  I  have  come  and  gone,  slept  and  waked,  sung 
and  wept,  been  hungry  and  thirsty,  too  cold  and  too 
hot ;  I  have  been  bored,  I  have  less  money,  and  six 
months  more  to  my  age  —  I  have  lived  ->  that 's  all. 
And  what  have  you  been  doing  ? 

279 


•!•  4*  *4»  «§•  •!•  •!»  •!•  JU  «A*  •JL»«Ju«|»#I»  •!•  4k  ^4U«A»«4?«I»  «£••!•  «l*ci« 

*•*   *">*    «*»    v***    vm     •>«•    wv     *r»     vS*     «m    *£»    «S»  «&•   *w  vr»  «5v   wwv  •/*•   *»»   •*»•  «>*«    MM    Wtw  anR» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

Rosette.    I  have  loved  you. 

Theodore.    Nothing  else  ? 

Rosette.  Nothing  else.  That  was  a  waste  of  time, 
was  it  not  ? 

Theodore.  You  might  have  used  it  to  better  purpose, 
my  poor  Rosette.  For  instance,  you  might  have  loved 
some  one  who  could  return  your  love. 

Rosette.  In  love  as  in  all  else  I  am  disinterested  :  I 
am  not  a  usurer  in  love  ;   I  give  outright. 

Theodore.  That  is  a  very  rare  virtue,  that  can  spring 
up  but  in  a  choice  soul.  I  have  very  often  wished  I 
could  love  you,  at  least  in  the  way  you  would  have 
me  do ;  but  there  is  between  us  an  insurmountable 
obstacle,  which  I  may  not  tell  you  of.  Have  you  had 
another  lover  since  I  left  you  ? 

Rosette.    I  have  had  one,  and  have  him  still. 

Theodore.    What  kind  of  a  man  is  he  ? 

Rosette.    A  poet. 

Theodore.  A  poet  ?  the  devil !  And  what  has  he 
done  ? 

Rosette.  I  do  not  really  know ;  some  sort  of  a  book 
that  nobody  knows  about  and  that  I  tried  to  read  one 
evening. 

Theodore.    So    you    have    an    unpublished     poet    for 

280 


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•m*  am*    «*»    •*•    •**     »*•    «m     •*»     «*•»    ««w    •«•    «p»  •*>•   •*»  •»»  •»•   •*•  •*»  «r*  •>«<•  «f«    ««•   •*•  V?» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

lover.  Curious  !  Is  he  out  at  elbows  ?  Is  his  linen 
dirty  ?      Do  his  stockings  fall  round  his  legs  ? 

Rosette.  No;  he  dresses  rather  well,  washes  his 
hands,  and   has   no   ink-stains   on   his  nose.      He  is  a 

friend     of    de     C 's ;    I    met    him    at    Mme.    de 

Themines,  —  that  tall  woman,  you  know,  who  plays 
at  being  a  little  innocent  child. 

Theodore.  And  may  I  know  the  name  of  this  fine 
gentleman  ? 

Rosette.    Certainly ;  he  is  the  Chevalier  d'Albert. 

Theodore.  Chevalier  d'Albert  !  Was  he  not  the 
young  man  who  was  on  the  balcony  when  I  got  off 
my  horse  ? 

Rosette.    The  very  one. 

Theodore.    And  who  looked  so  attentively  at  me? 

Rosette.    Exactly. 

Theodore.  He  is  a  good-looking  fellow.  And  so 
you   have  not   forgotten   me  for  him  ? 

Rosette.  No.  Unfortunately  you  are  not  of  those 
whom   one   forgets. 

Theodore.  And  no  doubt  he  is  very  deeply  in  love 
with  you. 

Rosette.  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  There  are  times 
when  he  seems  to  be  very  much  in  love  with  me,  but 

2*h  ' 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

in  reality  he  does  not  care  for  me,  and  he  is  not  far 
from  hating  me,  for  he  is  angry  with  me  because  he 
cannot  love  me.  He  did  just  as  others,  more  ex- 
perienced than  he,  have  done  —  mistook  a  lively  desire 
for  passion,  and  was  quite  surprised  and  much  disap- 
pointed when  his  desire  was  satisfied.  It  is  a  mistake 
to  suppose  that  two  people  who  have  been  together 
must  necessarily  adore  each  other. 

Theodore.  And  what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  this 
no-lover  lover  ? 

Rosette.  What  one  does  with  old  moons  and  old  fash- 
ions. He  has  not  strength  enough  to  be  the  first  to 
break  away,  and  although  he  does  not  love  me  in  the  real 
meaning  of  the  word,  he  clings  to  me  through  a  habit 
of  pleasure,  and  that  is  the  most  difficult  kind  to  shake 
off.  If  I  do  not  come  to  his  rescue,  he  is  capable  of 
remaining  conscientiously  bored  by  my  side  until  the 
Last  Judgment,  and  even  longer,  for  he  has  in  him  the 
germ  of  all  noble  qualities,  and  the  flowers  of  his  soul 
are  but  too  eager  to  bloom  in  the  sunshine  of  eternal 
love.  I  am  really  sorry  I  could  not  be  that  sunshine 
to  him.  Of  all  my  lovers  whom  I  have  not  loved,  he 
is  the  one  I  care  for  most,  and  if  I  were  not  so  kind- 
hearted  I  would   not  let   him   go   free,  but  keep  him. 

28^ 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

This  I  shall  not  do,  however,  and  at  present  I  am 
busy  wearing  him  out. 

Theodore.    How  long  will  that  take  ? 

Rosette.  A  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  but  certainly 
less  long  than  if  you  had  not  come.  I  know  I  shall 
never  be  your  mistress,  for  a  reason  to  which,  you  tell 
me,  I  would  yield  if  you  were  allowed  to  reveal  it. 
Yet,  though  I  am  forbidden  all  hope  as  far  as  you  are 
concerned,  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  be  another  man's 
mistress  when  you  are  by ;  it  seems  to  me  a  profanation 
and  to  deprive  me  of  the  right  of  loving  you. 

Theodore.    Keep  this  lover  for  love  of  me. 

Rosette.  I  will,  if  it  pleases  you.  But  if  you  could 
have  been  mine,  how  different  would  my  life  have  been. 
The  world  entirely  misunderstands  me,  and  I  might 
have  died  without  any  one  suspecting  my  real  self,  ex- 
cept you,  Theodore,  the  only  one  who  has  understood 
me  and  who  has  been  cruel  to  me.  I  have  never  wished 
to  have  a  lover  but  you,  and  I  have  not  had  you.  If 
you  had  loved  me,  Theodore,  I  should  have  been  a 
chaste  and  virtuous  woman,  worthy  of  you ;  instead  of 
which,  I  shall  leave  (supposing  any  one  remembers  me) 
the  reputation  of  a  light  o'  love,  of  a  sort  of  cour- 
tesan who  differed  from  the  street-walker  only  in  regard 


«i*#l*  «4*  *4*  ***  *^*  •*•  *&•  *A*  *A»  «JU«4*JU#i« •£«•!*  »1*  «4*  *JU •§»#»•  «l*  •I**!**- 

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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

of  wealth  and  rank.  I  was  born  with  the  highest 
aspirations,  but  not  to  be  loved  depraves  me  more  than 
anything  else.  Many  who  despise  me  have  no  idea  of 
what  I  have  suffered  before  becoming  what  I  am.  As 
I  knew  for  a  certainty  that  I  could  never  belong  to 
him  whom  I  preferred  to  all  others,  I  let  myself  go, 
and  did  not  guard  a  body  which  could  not  be  possessed 
by  you.  As  for  my  heart,  no  one  has  it  or  ever  shall 
have  it.  It  is  yours,  though  you  have  broken  it,  and, 
unlike  most  women,  who  think  themselves  honest 
because  they  have  not  passed  from  one  bed  to  another, 
I  have,  while  prostituting  my  body,  always  remained 
faithful  to  you  in  heart  and  soul.  I  have  at  least  made 
some  men  happy  ;  I  have  caused  fair  illusions  to  flutter 
around  some  couches.  I  have  unwittingly  deceived 
more  than  one  noble  heart.  I  was  so  wretched  at 
being  rejected  by  you  that  I  have  always  dreaded  sub- 
jecting any  one  to  such  torture.  That  is  the  real 
reason  of  many  an  affair  of  mine  attributed  to  sheer 
wantonness.  I  a  wanton  !  oh,  Heavens  !  If  you  only 
knew,  Theodore,  the  deep  grief  of  feeling  that  one's 
life  is  a  failure,  that  one  has  passed  by  happiness,  that 
every  one  misunderstands  you  and  that  it  is  impossible 
to  make  people  change  their  opinion  of  you,  that  your 

284 


«**  •§•  #»!»  »J.-9  »§*  *4*  •»*  »4r*  ***  •«»  *S*  **»•*«  *s*  *r*  •*•  »*»  *!"•  •*•  «4*  *4»  •*♦  «S*  •J* 
»»\»  mv    v«w    vt>*    c/.»    »w    m     »V»    •*•.»    wvw    **<•    w*  ««r»  «<r»  **<•  «<•»•   •»»>•  ms#  «^»  vie*  *r»    •»•<•   <*»•  w*w 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

highest  qualities  are  turned  into  faults,  your  purest  per- 
fumes into  poisons,  that  nothing  is  known  of  you  but 
what  is  evil,  to  have  always  found  the  door  opened  to 
your  vices  and  closed  to  your  virtues,  to  have  never 
been  able  to  cause  a  single  lily  or  rose  to  bloom 
amid  the  hemlock  and  the  nightshade.  These  are 
things  you  do  not  know,  Theodore. 

Theodore.  Alas  !  Rosette,  what  you  tell  me  is  but 
every  one's  story.  The  better  part  of  ourselves  is  that 
which  remains  within  us  and  which  we  cannot  bring 
forth.  Poets  are  so  made.  Their  finest  poem  is  the 
one  they  have  never  written  ;  they  take  more  poems 
away  with  them  in  their  coffins  than  they  leave  in  their 
library. 

Rosette.    I  shall  take  my  poem  away  with  me. 

Theodore.  And  I,  mine  ;  which  of  us  has  not  com- 
posed one  in  his  life  ?  What  man  too  happy  or  top 
wretched  not  to  have  written  one  in  his  head  or  his 
heart  ?  Public  executioners  have  perhaps  composed 
poems  wet  with  the  tears  of  the  most  exquisite  feeling ; 
poets  may  have  composed  some  fit  for  executioners, 
so  bloody  and  monstrous  are  they. 

Rosette.  Yes,  —  they  might  scatter  white  roses  on 
my   grave,   for    though  I  have  had   ten   lovers  I  am    a 


«J/*«JU  #JU  »JL*  «X»  •**  •*•  •!-•  •»•  ***  •e*  •=*  *s«  •*<•  **»  •*»•*»•»*•»•  »**  9S9  **»  «A*4?«* 

<*\»   •/•*#    v*»    •»<•    •*«-»     •»»•    •*>••     •»•     «vw     **•     •*•     •!•   •*»•    •<•»   •>»<•   •*«•    •»*>•   vmo   •*•«    v*w    *■*»    <xv*    «5»  *Sw 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

virgin  and  shall  die  a  virgin.  Many  of  the  so-called 
virgins,  on  whose  graves  are  constantly  strewn  jessa- 
mine and  orange  blossoms,  have  been  downright 
Messalinas. 

Theodore.    I  know  your  worth,  Rosette. 

Rosette.  You  alone  have  seen  my  real  self,  for  you 
have  seen  me  rilled  with  a  very  true  and  a  very  deep 
because  hopeless  love.  And  he  who  has  not  seen  a 
woman  in  love  cannot  tell  what  she  is ;  this  is  my 
consolation  in  bitterness. 

Theodore.  And  what  thinks  of  you  that  young  man 
who,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  is  now  your  lover  ? 

Rosette.  A  lover's  thoughts  are  deeper  than  the 
sea,  and  it  is  hard  to  tell  what  lies  in  a  man's  heart. 
Though  the  sounding  line  were  a  hundred  thousand 
fathoms  long  it  would  not  reach  the  bottom.  Yet  I 
have  succeeded  occasionally  with  this  man,  and  the  lead 
brought  up  sometimes  mud,  sometimes  lovely  shells, 
but  usually  mud  mixed  with  broken  corals.  As  to  what 
he  thinks  of  me,  that  has  varied  a  good  deal.  He  began 
by  despising  me,  which  is  the  way  others  end ;  young 
men  with  lively  imaginations  are  subject  to  that. 
Their  first  step  is  always  a  big  drop,  and  they  cannot 
pass  from  fancy  to  reality  without  a  shock.      He  de- 

^86 


*|*«§»«4«  *§*  #A»  *§•  JU  r|»  •**  **•  »A*  •!•  «X*  «A*  •*•  »JU  *!»  •!•  *4»  •*»  «4»  •*••§•  #|* 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

spised  me  and  I  entertained  him  ;  now  he  has  esteem 
for  me,  but  I  bore  him.  During  the  first  period  of 
our  love  affair  he  saw  but  the  commonplace  in  me, 
and  I  think  the  certainty  he  felt  that  I  would  not  resist 
him  greatly  influenced  his  resolve.  He  seemed  very 
anxious  to  have  an  intrigue,  and  I  thought  at  first  it 
was  merely  a  case  of  a  full  heart  that  must  needs  over- 
flow, or  a  purposeless  springtime  love  that  makes  a 
man  embrace  trees  and  kiss  the  flowers  and  the  turf 
for  lack  of  a  woman.  But  it  was  not  that.  He 
merely  made  use  of  me  to  reach  something  else ;  I 
was  a  means,  not  an  end,  to  him.  Under  the  out- 
ward freshness  of  his  twenty  years  and  the  first  bloom 
of  his  youth,  he  concealed  deep  corruption.  He  had 
been  stung  to  the  heart ;  he  was  a  Dead  Sea  fruit.  A 
soul  as  old  as  Saturn,  as  incurably  unhappy  as  ever 
was,  inhabited  his  young  and  vigorous  frame.  I  con- 
fess to  having  been  frightened,  Theodore,  and  to  hav- 
ing almost  felt  my  head  swim  as  I  bent  over  the  black 
depths  of  that  life.  Your  sorrows  and  mine  are  naught 
in  comparison  with  his.  Had  I  loved  him  better  it 
would  have  killed  him.  Something  that  is  neither  of 
the  world  nor  in  the  world  calls  and  attracts  him  irre- 
sistibly ;    he    cannot    rest    day  or   night ;    and,    like    a 

287 


JU«4**o**4«  **»  •»»  »4»  '4'*  *Ir»  •*»  #A»#Ju#l»cl« »I*  «4*  «JU  *i»  «4**4»  *4»  •!•  •!»•!» 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

heliotrope  in  a  cellar,  he  writhes  in  his  efforts  to  turn 
towards  the  sun  he  does  not  see.  He  is  a  man  whose 
soul  has  not  been  dipped  enough  in  the  waters  of  Lethe 
before  being  bound  to  its  body,  and  which  retains 
reminiscences  of  eternal  beauty  in  the  heaven  from 
which  it  has  come,  reminiscences  which  torture  and 
torment  it,  —  a  soul  that  remembers  having  had  wings, 
and  now  has  but  feet.  In  God's  place  I  should 
deprive  of  poetry  for  two  centuries  the  angel  who  was 
guilty  of  such  a  blunder.  Instead  of  a  house  of  brightly 
coloured  cards  to  shelter  a  fair  young  fancy  for  a 
single  springtime,  a  tower  higher  than  the  eight  super- 
imposed temples  of  Belus  was  required.  I  could  not 
provide  this  and,  pretending  not  to  have  understood, 
I  left  him  to  crawl  on  his  wings  and  to  find  a 
summit  whence  he  might  spring  into  the  vast  void. 
He  fancies  I  have  been  blind  to  all  this,  because  I 
have  lent  myself  to  all  his  caprices  without  seeming 
to  suspect  their  object.  As  I  could  not  cure  him,  I 
tried  to  gladden  him  at  least  with  the  belief  that  he 
has  been  passionately  loved,  and  this,  I  trust,  will  one 
day  be  accounted  to  me  for  righteousness.  He  excited 
my  pity  and  interest  quite  sufficiently  to  make  it  easy 
for  me  to  deceive  him  by  tender  tones  and  ways.      I 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

have  played  my  part  like  a  consummate  actress  ;  al- 
ternately playful  and  sad,  sensible  and  amorous ;  feign- 
ing anxiety  and  jealousy,  shedding  false  tears,  and 
smiling  at  will.  I  adorned  that  imitation  love  with 
the  richest  of  stuffs;  walked  with  it  down  the  avenues 
of  my  park ;  summoned  all  my  birds  to  sing  as  it 
passed  -y  sent  it  across  the  lake  on  the  silvery  back  of 
my  pet  swan  ;  concealed  myself  within  it  and  lent  it 
my  voice,  my  wit,  my  beauty,  my  youth  ;  made  it  so 
seductive  that  the  lie  was  fairer  than  the  truth.  When 
the  time  comes  to  shatter  that  hollow  statue  I  shall  do 
it  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  him  believe  that  I  alone 
am  to  blame ;  and  to  spare  him  remorse,  I  shall  myself 
prick  the  bubble.  Now  is  not  that  saintly  prostitution 
and  laudable  deceit  ?  I  have  preserved  in  a  crystal 
urn  some  tears  that  were  ready  to  fall.  These  are  my 
jewels  and  my  jewel  case,  and  I  shall  present  them  to 
the  angel  who  shall  come  to  take  me  to  God. 

Theodore.  They  are  the  fairest  gems  that  can  sparkle 
on  a  woman's  neck,  and  no  queen  can  match  them. 
For  myself,  I  believe  the  ointment  the  Magdalen 
poured  out  on  Christ's  feet  was  composed  of  the  tears 
shed  long  ago  by  those  she  had  consoled  ;  and  I  think 
too  that  it  is  such  tears  that  have  made  the  Milky  Way, 

vol.  i  — 19  289 


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•*•  ♦*#   «£»   **«    iff*    «Wv   •*»    «*•    <£*    «P»   «**   *•*  *r*  «m  «*»  ***  •*>  **»  «■*  •*•  **•   **»  «**  •*•'■■ 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

and  not,  as  has  been  claimed,  drops  of  Juno's  milk. 
But  who  shall  do  for  you  what  you  have  done  for 
him  ? 

Rosette.     No  one,  alas  !  since  you  cannot. 

Theodore.  Would  that  I  could,  beloved  !  But  lose 
not  hope  ;  you  are  still  very  young  and  you  are  beauti- 
ful. You  still  have  to  traverse  many  an  avenue  of 
acacia  and  linden  in  bloom  before  you  reach  the  dank 
road,  box-bordered  and  with  leafless  trees,  that  leads 
from  the  porphyry  tomb  which  shall  hold  your  fair 
dead  years  to  the  undressed,  moss-covered  stone  tomb 
in  which  shall  be  buried  the  remains  of  what  once 
you  were,  and  the  tottering,  wrinkled  ghosts  of  the 
days  of  your  old  age.  You  have  still  to  climb  a  long 
way  up  the  hill  of  life,  and  it  will  be  a  long  time 
ere  you  reach  the  snow-line.  As  yet  you  are  in 
the  zone  of  aromatic  plants,  of  limpid  cascades  over 
which  the  iris  hangs  its  tri-coloured  arches,  of  the  great 
green  oaks  and  the  balmy  hemlocks.  Ascend  higher, 
and  thence,  on  the  broader  horizon  which  will  be  out- 
spread at  your  feet,  you  will  perhaps  see  rising  the 
bluish  smoke  of  the  roof  where  sleeps  he  who  shall 
love  you.  You  must  not  begin  by  despairing  of  your 
life  ;    new  opportunities  arise  which  we  did  not  expect. 

290 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

Man,  as  he  traverses  life,  has  often  recalled  to  me  the 
pilgrim  who  climbs  the  winding  stair  of  a  Gothic 
tower.  The  granite  spiral  twists  its  convolutions 
serpentlike,  in  the  darkness,  the  steps  being  the  scales. 
After  the  first  few  turns,  the  little  daylight  that  comes 
through  the  door  disappears.  The  overshadowing 
houses,  not  yet  overtopped,  prevent  the  light  from 
filtering  in  through  the  narrow  slits ;  the  walls  are  dark 
and  damp ;  it  seems  rather  as  if  one  were  going  down 
into  a  prison  than  climbing  the  tower  which,  from 
below,  looked  so  graceful  and  tall,  and  as  covered  with 
lace  and  embroidery  as  if  it  were  going  to  a  ball. 
The  moist  darkness  weighs  down  heavily,  so  that  one 
hesitates  about  ascending  higher.  The  stairs  wind  a 
few  turns  more  and  the  golden  trefoils  of  light  strike 
the  inner  wall  more  frequently.  The  crocketed 
gables  of  the  houses,  the  carving  on  the  cornices,  the 
quaint  shape  of  the  chimneys  begin  to  show.  A  few 
steps  farther  up  and  the  glance  takes  in  the  whole 
town,  a  mass  of  slender  shafts,  steeples,  and  towers 
uprising  everywhere  around,  serrated,  slashed,  open- 
worked,  cut  out  sharply  with  the  light  showing  through 
their  numerous  openings.  Domes  and  cupolas  swell 
up    like  the    breasts    of   a    giantess    or   the   skulls   of 

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•*/%  ***  **»  •!'♦  •*»  *4»  •**  •1'*  «sr*  ***  *s^  •=•  ***  •"£•  •*•  **"•  •*»  •*»  »a*  **•  •§•  «s*  «*U  **» 

•**    •*•     •*#     «*•      v*#       V*»     MW      «fw      Wl      OT«      «*•      •*•    *T»    •*»    •»•    *•>•    WW*    Vr#    ««W    •«*»    «f»     «*•     •**    •*• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

Titans ;  groups  of  houses  and  palaces  are  plunged  in 
shadow  or  bathed  in  light.  A  few  steps  higher  and 
the  platform  is  reached  ;  then  beyond  the  city  walls 
are  seen  the  green  fields,  the  blue  hills,  and  the  white 
sail  on  the  shimmering  river.  There  is  a  flood  of 
dazzling  sunlight,  and  the  swallows  pass  and  repass 
with  glad  cries.  The  distant  hum  of  the  city  comes 
up  like  a  friendly  murmur  or  the  buzzing  of  a  hive 
of  bees ;  from  every  steeple  pour  forth  sonorous,  pearly 
notes  ;  the  winds  come  laden  with  the  scent  of  the 
near-by  forest  and  of  the  mountain  flowers.  Had  one 
tired  or  become  discouraged  and  remained  seated  on  a 
step  lower  down,  or  gone  back  altogether,  one  would 
have  missed  the  prospect.  Sometimes,  however,  the 
tower  has  but  a  single  opening,  at  the  top  or  half  way 
up ;  it  is  so  with  our  tower  of  life.  Then  must  one 
have  more  determined  courage,  and  a  perseverance 
armed,  as  it  were,  with  stronger  claws  with  which  to 
cling,  in  the  darkness,  to  the  projections  of  the  stones 
and  to  reach  the  resplendent  trefoil  through  which  the 
gaze  can  wander  over  the  land.  Sometimes,  too,  the 
loopholes  have  been  closed  up,  or  have  been  forgotten 
and  left  unpierced :  then  one  is  compelled  to  climb  to 
the  top  ;    but  the  higher  one   has  gone  in  the  darkness, 

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•B^  ^pj^  ^^^  +M/%  +m*%  +M^  +m>+  *3^  **3^  +Mr+  ^5^  *!?^  ^?^  ^5"^  ^5^  *5?^  *^=^  ^^^  ^~^  ^5*  *ff*  ^r?*  ^—  ^Jr* 
•**  •/■*#    .7«»*«.7*«7«ot«v»**L«?«»***v»**w  •*<•  •*•  «M   •*•  vfs»  •*•  *r*  •*•    Sll   •*•  ♦*• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

the  vaster  seems  the  prospect,  the  greater  the  pleasure 
and  surprise. 

Rosette.  Heaven  grant,  Theodore,  that  I  soon  reach 
the  place  where  the  window  is.  I  have  been  long 
enough  like  the  staircase  winding  up  in  the  gloom,  and 
I  fear  the  opening  has  been  walled  up  and  I  shall  have 
to  climb  to  the  very  top.  Then  what  if  this  staircase 
of  many  steps  should  end,  after  all,  in  a  walled  up  door 
or  a  stone  vault  ? 

Theodore.  Do  not  say  such  things,  Rosette  ;  do  not 
think  them.  What  architect  would  build  a  staircase  lead- 
ing nowhither  ?  And  why  should  we  think  the  peace- 
ful Architect  of  the  world  more  stupid  and  improvident 
than  an  ordinary  architect  ?  God  never  makes  a  mistake 
and  never  forgets  anything.  It  is  impossible  to  believe 
that  he  has  amused  himself,  just  to  play  us  a  trick, 
with  shutting  us  up  in  a  long  stone  tube  without  opening 
or  outlet.  Why  should  «you  think  that  he  would  re- 
fuse to  the  pitiful  atoms  that  we  are  their  wretched  mo- 
mentary happiness  and  the  imperceptible  grain  of  millet 
which  is  their  share  in  this  great  creation  ?  He  would 
have  to  be  as  cruel  as  a  judge  or  a  tiger,  and,  if  we  are 
so  hateful  to  him,  all  he  need  do  is  to  order  a  comet  to 
turn  slightly  out  of  its  orbit,  and  to  strangle  us  all  with 

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•**  *4*  •»»  *#*  *4*  •*»  •**  *ir»  *Jf*  •*«  *5»  «S*«S*  «S»  «S*  •§•  •*»  •»•  «S«  «9*  •9*  *»•  •«♦  *f* 

«r*v*    •/«•     «*#     *uv»     VT*      •*»     am*      «r*      tff»     *f«     *?•     *»•   •*•    **»    **•   •*»    «N   «W    «JF»    •««•    «f*     «««    «*•  «w 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

a  hair  of  its  tail.  How  the  devil  can  you  suppose  that 
God  would  take  pleasure  in  stringing  us  one  by  one  on 
a  golden  pin,  as  the  Emperor  Domitian  spitted  flies  ? 
God  is  neither  a  janitor  nor  a  church-warden,  and 
though  old,  is  not  in  his  dotage.  All  such  petty  malice 
is  beneath  him,  and  he  is  not  fool  enough  to  chaff*  us 
and  to  play  us  tricks.  Courage,  Rosette,  courage.  If 
you  are  morbid,  stop  for  awhile,  take  breath,  and  then 
climb  on.  It  may  be  that  twenty  steps  higher  up  you 
will  come  upon  the  embrasure  from  which  you  can 
behold  the  happiness  in  store  for  you. 

Rosette.  Never,  never  !  And  if  I  chance  to  reach 
the  top  of  the  tower,  it  will  be  only  that  I  may  cast 
myself  down  headlong. 

Theodore.  Dear  sorrowing  one,  drive  away  these 
gloomy  thoughts  that  sweep  around  you  like  bats  and 
overshadow  your  fair  brow  with  their  sombre  wings.  If 
you  would  have  me  love  you",  be  happy  and  weep  not. 
(He  draws  her  gently  to  himself  and  kisses  her  eyes.) 

Rosette.  Woe  is  me  that  I  ever  knew  you  !  Yet,  if 
it  were  to  be  again,  I  would  wish  to  have  known  you  ! 
Your  rigour  has  been  dearer  to  me  than  the  love  of 
others,  and  though  you  have  made  me  suffer  greatly,  all 
the  pleasure  I  have  known  has  come  to  me  through  you. 

294 


&£:  &  &  i:  &  £:  i:  i:  tlr&dhfetfctfetfetsbttrtfcti::*?  dlrtir  A 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

You  have  flashed  through  my  darkness  and  lighted  up 
many  a  dark  corner  of  my  soul ;  you  have  opened  up 
many  a  new  prospect  in  my  life.  To  you  I  owe  it 
that  I  know  love, —  hopeless  love,  it  is  true,  but 
it  is  most  sweet  and  sad  at  once  to  love  without 
being  beloved,  and  to  remember  those  who  forget  us. 
It  is  some  happiness,  at  least,  to  be  able  to  love 
even  with  unrequited  love ;  many  die  without  having 
known  it,  and  those  most  to  be  pitied  are  not  those 
who   love. 

Theodore.  These  suffer,  and  their  wounds  burn,  but 
at  least  they  are  conscious  of  living.  They  cling  to 
something  ;  they  have  a  sun  around  which  they  revolve, 
a  pole  towards  which  they  ardently  turn.  They  have 
something  to  wish  for;  they  may  say  to  themselves: 
If  I  attain  thither  —  if  I  gain  that  —  I  shall  be  happy. 
Their  agony  is  frightful,  but  at  least  they  can  say,  as 
they  expire,  "  It  is  for  him  I  die."  And  to  die  is  to  be 
reborn.  Those  alone  are  truly  and  irreparably  unhappy 
whose  mad  embrace  seeks  to  enfold  the  whole  world, 
those  who  wish  everything  and  ask  nothing ;  and  who 
would  be  embarrassed  and  dumb  did  a  fay  or  an  angel 
descend  and  suddenly  say  to  them,  "  Express  a  wish 
and  it  shall  be  granted." 

295 


•&•  •4**1*  *J/«  •!*  #*»  •£•  «JU  #JU  *JU  »§*•**  #§••§••£«•§•  •!••§•  *§••§••<!>•  *§•  ♦*»*!* 

»»*  «m»    *£•    *Sm    •*»    «***    •*»    •»»    «*•    *r*    *!•    *»  «*•  •*»•  *»•  •*•  «^»  •*•  •«»  •*•  •*»   *»»  ««*•  *** 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

Rosette.  Did  the  fairy  come,  I  know  well  what  I 
would  ask. 

Theodore.  Knowing  it,  Rosette,  you  are  happier  than 
I,  for  I  do  not  know  what  wish  I  would  form.  Many 
vague  desires'  uprise  in  me  and  are  confounded  one 
with  another,  bringing  forth  others  which  then  destroy 
them.  My  wishes  are  like  a  cloud  of  birds  circling  and 
turning  aimlessly ;  yours  are  like  the  eagle  whose  gaze 
is  fixed  upon  the  sun,  but  whom  the  lack  of  air  pre- 
vents his  rising  upon  his  outspread  pinions.  Would  I 
could  know  what  it  is  I  want !  Would  the  idea  which 
pursues  me  could  come  out  sharp  and  clear  from  the 
mist  which  envelops  it ;  a  star,  lucky  or  unlucky,  ap- 
peared within  my  heaven ;  the  light  I  am  to  follow, 
whether  treacherous  will-o'-the-wisp  or  kindly  beacon, 
shone  in  my  night ;  my  pillar  of  fire  went  before  me, 
even  through  a  waterless  and  foodless  desert ;  would 
that  I  knew  whither  I  go,  even  if  it  be  to  the  preci- 
pice's brink  !  To  the  monotonous  and  stupid  mark- 
ing time  I  would  prefer  the  mad  gallop  of  the  Wild 
Huntsman,  through  copse  and  hollow.  Such  a  life 
as  mine  is  the  life  of  the  blindfolded  horse  that  turns 
the  mill-wheel  and  travels  thousands  of  miles  without 
seeing   anything   or  changing   its  place.      I  have   gone 

296 


•4*  *§**&•  *4*  •*•  *&*  •&•  *4«  *^*  »^»  •4«»|t»JUel»  •*«  «4»  **->  »A»  #A»  *l*r&»  •!•  «|«*|« 

*»%»    *«v»    «^.     »N    <a*U     •*•    •««•     «r*     •*•     »*•     *T*    •*•  **•    •*•   «^»   «""•    •*•  "•"•    •*■■•   •<*•   **•    •*•    vr*  •*»• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

round  long  enough,  and  it  is  time  the  bucket  were 
at   the  top. 

Rosette.  You  are  very  like  d'Albert  in  many  ways, 
and  when  you  are  speaking  I  often  think  it  is  he  who 
speaks.  I  have  no  doubt  that,  when  you  know  him 
better,  you  will  become  greatly  attached  to  him.  You 
cannot  fail  to  agree.  Like  you  he  feels  aimless  aspi- 
rations; he  loves  greatly  without  knowing  what  he 
loves;  he  would  ascend  to  heaven,  for  earth  he  counts 
a  footstool  scarce  good  enough  for  his  feet ;  and  he 
is  prouder  than  Lucifer  before  his  fall. 

Theodore.  I  feared  at  first  he  might  be  one  of  that 
numerous  brood  of  poets  who  have  driven  poetry  from 
this  earth,  one  of  those  stringers-on  of  imitation  pearls 
who  have  no  thought  but  for  the  last  syllable  of  a  word, 
and  who,  when  they  have  rimed  heart  and  part,  love 
and  dove,  shadow  and  morrow,  conscientiously  fold  their 
arms,  cross  their  legs,  and  allow  the  spheres  to  complete 
their  revolutions. 

Rosette.  He  is  not  of  those.  His  verses  are  less  than 
he,  and  do  not  express  him  completely.  To  judge  him 
by  what  he  has  done  would  give  a  very  false  impression 
of  him  ;  he  is  himself  his  real  poem,  and  I  am  not  sure 
that  he  will  ever  compose  another.      He  holds  within 

297 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

his  soul  a  bevy  of  lovely  thoughts  which  he  surrounds 
with  a  triple  wall,  and  of  which  he  is  more  jealous  than 
ever  a  sultan  was  of  his  odalisques.  He  puts  into  his 
verse  those  thoughts  only  that  he  cares  not  for  or  that 
he  is  tired  of;  it  is  his  way  of  getting  rid  of  them,  and 
the  world  gets  only  that  which  he  cares  for  no  longer. 

Theodore.  I  can  understand  his  reserve  and  jealousy. 
So  many  people  own  to  having  loved  only  when  they 
love  no  more,  and  acknowledge  their  mistresses  only 
when  they  are  dead. 

Rosette.  It  is  very  difficult  to  possess  anything  to 
one's  self  in  this  world,  for  every  torch  attracts  so  many 
butterflies,  and  every  treasure  so  many  thieves.  I  like 
the  silent  ones  who  carry  away  their  thought  into  the 
tomb,  and  refuse  to  have  it  soiled  by  the  filthy  kisses 
and  obscene  touch  of  the  crowd.  I  like  those  lovers 
who  never  cut  their  mistress's  name  upon  a  tree,  never 
confide  it  to  an  echo,  and  fear,  even  when  asleep,  that 
a  dream  may  lead  them  to  say  it.  I  am  of  them  :  I 
have  never  told  my  thought,  and  none  shall  know  of 
my  love.  .  .  .  But  it  is  almost  eleven,  my  dear  Theo- 
dore, and  I  am  keeping  you  from  a  much  needed  rest. 
When  I  have  to  leave  you  my  heart  always  sinks 
within   me   and  I  feel  as  if  it  were  the  last  time  we 

298 


dbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdb  is  is  dbtfc 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

were  to  meet.  I  delay  as  long  as  I  can,  but  go  I  must 
at  last.  Now,  good-night,  for  I  am  afraid  d' Albert 
will  come  to  look  for  me.      Good-bye,  dear  friend. 

Theodore  put  his  arm  round  her  and  led  her  thus 
to  the  door ;  then  he  stopped  and  long  followed  her 
with  his  glance  ;  there  were  at  intervals  in  the  corridor 
little  narrow-paned  windows  lighted  up  by  the  moon- 
light, which  produced  a  very  fantastic  alternation  of 
light  and  shadow.  As  the  white,  pure  figure  of  Rosette 
passed  each  window  it  shone  as  if  it  were  a  silvery 
phantom,  then  it  disappeared  to  reappear  more  brilliant 
a  little  farther  away,  and  finally  it  vanished  altogether. 

Theodore,  apparently  sunk  in  deep  thought,  remained 
for  some  time  motionless,  with  folded  arms,  then  he 
passed  his  hand  over  his  brow,  tossed  back  his  hair, 
re-entered  the  room,  and  went  to  bed  after  kissing  the 
page,  still  sound  asleep. 


299 


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otU  •*•  *r»  •*«•   «m    wm   «w    «r»    ««•    •?«*   «*•   •«•  wiw  «r>  «•<•  •*•  •*•  iw  •*»  •>«<•  •*•  «••  «P«  «AU 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

•!/•*§»  Jts  »J/»  *£%    «si^    •£•  #^»   **»  •£•  «&«  *«"»  **»  ***  »§*  •**  <^|»  «*•»  •*««*»  •*•  *J|»  •»••£• 

«*\*  *«>#    *v*    vr*    mu    v*#    •**    «r»    »*<•    air*    *v»    •«•  *T»  «r»  •^w  •"»"*  *^»  m  «(>•  •*»*  •»•    «**   •>"•  *»• 

VII 

AS  soon  as  Rosette  was  awake,  d'Albert  hastened, 
in  a  way  that  was  unusual  with  him,  to  call 
upon  her. 

"  I  should  say  you  had  come  very  early,"  said  Ro- 
sette, "  if  you  could  ever  be  early  as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned. So,  to  reward  you  for  your  compliment,  I 
permit  you  to  kiss   my  hand." 

And  she  drew  from  under  the  sheet  of  Flanders 
linen,  edged  with  lace,  the  prettiest  hand  ever  seen 
at  the  end  of  a  plump,  round  arm. 

D'Albert  kissed  it  devoutly.  "  And  what  about 
the  other,  the  little  sister  ?  "  he  said.  "  Is  it  not  to 
be  kissed  too  ?  " 

"  Why,  certainly,  if  you  wish  it.  I  am  in  my 
kindest  mood  to-day,  so  there  ! " 

And  she  drew  out  the  other  hand,  with  which  she 
lightly  tapped  him  on  the  mouth. 

"  Am  I  not  the  best-natured  woman  in  the  world  ?  " 

"  You  are  grace  itself,  and  white  marble  temples 
should  be  built  in  your  honour  in  myrtle  groves.  I 
absolutely  fear  Psyche's  fate  for  you,  and  the  jealousy 

300 


MADEMOISELLE    DE     MAUPIN 

of  Venus,"  said  d'Albert,  taking  the  beauty's  two  hands 
and  raising  them  to  his  lips. 

u  You  recite  that  like  a  book,"  said  Rosette,  with 
a  delightful  little  pout.  "  It  sounds  like  something 
you  have  committed  to  memory." 

u  Not  at  all.  You  are  well  worth  making  a  phrase 
expressly   for    you,  and   you    ought    to    have  the  first 

0 

hearing  of  madrigals,"   replied   d'Albert. 

"  Now  what  bee  has  stung  you  to-day  ?  You  are 
so  polite  that  I  fear  you  must  be  ill ;  I  am  afraid  you 
will  die.  Do  you  know  that  it  is  a  very  bad  omen  for 
any  one's  character  to  change  without  any  apparent 
reason  for  it  ?  And  as  it  is  an  established  fact,  in  the 
eyes  of  all  the  women  who  have  taken  pains  to  love 
you,  that  you  are  habitually  a  most  sulky  person,  so 
is  it  equally  sure  that  you  are  at  this  moment  most 
charming  and  most  unaccountably  amiable.  The  truth 
is,  my  poor  d'Albert,  that  vou  are  very  pale.  Let  me 
have  your  arm,  I  want  to  feel  your  pulse."  And  she 
pushed  back  his  sleeve  and  counted  the  pulsations  with 
comic  gravity.  "  No,  you  are  as  well  as  can  be,  and 
have  not  the  least  symptom  of  fever.  I  must,  then,  be 
uncommonly  pretty  this  morning.  Fetch  me  my  glass, 
that  I  may  see  how  far  your  compliments  are  justified. 

301 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

D'Albert  fetched  a  small  mirror  from  the  toilet  table 
and  laid  it  on  the  bed. 

"  No,"  said  Rosette,  "  you  were  not  so  far  wrong. 
Why  do  you  not  write  a  sonnet  about  my  eyes,  Sir 
Poet  ?  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not.  Am 
I  not  most  unfortunate  ?  I  have  beautiful  eyes  and 
a  handsome  poet,  and  withal  I  get  just  as  few  sonnets 
as  if  I  were  blind  of  one  eye  and  had  a  water-carrier 
for  a  lover.  You  do  not  love  me,  sir ;  you  have  not 
written  even  an  acrostic  sonnet.  And  what  of  my 
mouth  ?  What  think  you  of  it  ?  Yet  I  have  kissed 
you  with  that  mouth,  and  may  kiss  you  again,  you  dark 
beauty,  though  you  scarcely  deserve  it  —  this  morning, 
however,  you  deserve  anything.  But  do  not  let  me 
speak  of  myself  all  the  time ;  let  us  speak  of  you. 
You  are  marvellously  handsome  and  bright  this  morn- 
ing, you  look  like  Aurora's  brother;  and  though  it  is 
scarcely  daylight  you  are  already  dressed  and  adorned 
as  if  for  a  call.  Have  you  perchance  any  designs  upon 
me  ?  Are  you  thinking  of  treacherously  overcoming  my 
virtue  ?  Do  you  wish  to  make  a  conquest  of  me  ?  I  for- 
got, though;  that  is  already  done  and  is  an  old  story." 

"  Do   not  joke  like  that,   Rosette ;   you  know   very  . 
well  that   I   love  you." 

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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

u  That  depends.  I  am  not  so  sure  of  it.  Are 
you  ?  " 

u  Most  certain ;  and  more  by  token,  if  you  will  bi 
good  enough  to  order  no  one  to  be  admitted,  I  shall 
try  to  prove  it,  and  shall,  I  venture  to  think,  prove  it 
conclusively." 

"  That  I  will  not  do.  Much  as  I  should  like  to  be 
convinced,  my  door  remains  open.  I  am  too  pretty  to 
be  pretty  in  private;  the  sun  shines  for  everybody,  and 
my  beauty  is,  with  your  leave,  going  to  imitate  the 
sun   to-day." 

"  On  my  honour,  it  is  not  with  my  leave.  But  do  as 
you  please ;  I  am  your  most  humble  slave  and  lay  my 
will  at  your  feet." 

"  That  is  very  pretty.  Keep  these  sentiments,  and 
do  not  lock  your  door  this  evening." 

"  The  Chevalier  Theodore  de  Serannes,"  said,  from 
between  the  half-opened  leaves  of  the  door,  a  negress 
with  big,  round,  smiling  face,  "  desires  to  pay  his 
respects  and  begs  to  be  received." 

"  Show  in  the  chevalier,"  said  Rosette,  pulling  the 
sheet  up  to  her  chin. 

Theodore  first  went  up  to  Rosette's  bed,  made  a  low 
and  graceful  bow,  which  she   returned  with  a  friendly 

303 


MADEMOISELLE     DE     MAUPIN 

nod,  and  then  turned  towards  d'Albert,  to  whom  he 
bowed  with  an  open  and  courteous  manner. 

"What  were  you  saying?"  he  inquired.  "I  dare  say 
I  interrupted  an  interesting  conversation.  Pray  go  on, 
and  tell  me  in  a  few  words  what  it  was  about." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  replied  Rosette,  smiling  provokingly, 
u  we  were  talking  business." 

Theodore  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  d'Albert, 
as  the  first-comer,  having  sat  down  at  the  head,  and 
the  conversation  went  on  for  some  time,  passing  from 
one  subject  to  another,  very  witty,  bright,  and  lively ; 
therefore  we  shall  not  relate  it,  lest  it  should  lose  too 
much  in  the  transcription.  The  look,  the  tone,  the 
vivacity  of  words  and  gestures,  the  thousand  ways  of 
saying  a  thing,  all  the  wit  which,  like  the  foam  of  cham- 
pagne, sparkles  and  disappears  at  once,  are  impossible 
to  fix  and  to  reproduce.  The  reader  must  fill  up  the 
blank  for  himself,  and  imagine  that  here  follow  five  or 
six  pages  filled  with  the  most  delicate,  most  capricious, 
most  delightfully  fantastic,  refined,  and  coruscating 
conversation. 

We  are  well  aware  that  we  are  making  use  of 
an  artifice  which  recalls  that  adopted  by  Timanthes, 
who,  despairing  of  painting  properly  Agamemnon's  face, 

3°4 


MADEMOISELLE     DE    MAUPIN 

cast  a  cloak  over  the  head  ;  but  we  prefer  timidity  to 
imprudence. 

It  might  be  well,  perhaps,  to  seek  out  the  motives 
which  had  led  d'Albert  to  rise  so  early,  and  had 
induced  him  to  call  on  Rosette  at  such  an  hour,  just 
as  if  he  still  loved  her.  It  is  probable  that  he  felt,  though 
he  would  not  confess  to,  a  slight  feeling  of  secret  jeal- 
ousy. Assuredly  he  did  not  care  very  much  for  Rosette, 
and  would  even  have  been  very  glad  to  get  rid  of  her, 
but  he  wished  at  least  to  be  the  one  who  gave  up,  and 
not  the  one  who  is  given  up,  which  latter  position  always 
hurts  deeply  a  man's  pride,  absolutely  dead  though  his 
first  love  may  be. 

Theodore  was  such  a  handsome  young  fellow  that  it 
was  difficult  to  see  him  break  in  upon  a  love  affair 
without  fearing  a  result  which  had  already  happened 
many  a  time,  namely,  that  all  eyes  turned  to  him  and 
all  hearts  too.  The  strange  thing  was  that,  although 
he  had  captivated  many  a  woman,  none  of  their  lovers 
had  retained  that  persistent  resentment  which  one 
usually  entertains  towards  people  who  have  supplanted 
you.  He  had  such  an  overmastering  charm  in  all  his 
ways,  and  was  so  naturally  gracious,  gentle,  and  proud 
that   men,  even,   felt  the  spell.     D'Albert,    who  had 


vol.  i  —  20 


3°5 


4*  4*  4. 4*  4*  4. 4. 4.  4*4. 4.  4.4. 4. 4*4. 4. 4.  4. 4.  4. 4*  4*  4. 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

come  to  Rosette's  room  with  the  intention  of  being 
very  short  with  Theodore  if  he  met  him  there,  was 
greatly  surprised  at  not  feeling  in  the  least  angry  and 
at  yielding  so  readily  to  his  advances.  At  the  end  of 
half  an  hour  you  would  have  taken  them  for  old 
friends;  yet  d'Albert  felt  internally  convinced  that  if 
ever  Rosette  loved,  Theodore  would  be  the  man,  and 
he  had  every  reason  to  be  jealous,  as  regarded  the  future 
at  least,  for  he  did  not  suspect  anything  in  the  present 
—  though  had  he  seen  her  in  a  white  wrapper  glide, 
like  a  night-moth  on  a  moonbeam,  into  the  handsome 
young  man's  room  and  not  leave  it  until  three  or  four 
hours  later,  and  then  with  many  precautions,  he  might, 
in  truth,  have  believed  himself  much  more  unhappy 
than  he  was  ;  for  it  is  not  usual  to  see  a  pretty  and 
amorous  woman  leave  the  room  of  a  no  less  handsome 
man  just  as  she  was  when  she  entered. 

Rosette  listened  to  Theodore  very  attentively,  as  one 
listens  to  a  beloved  one,  but  what  he  said  was  so  bright 
and  entertaining  that  her  attention  was  quite  natural 
and  intelligible,  so  d'Albert  was  not  in  the  least  of- 
fended by  it.  As  for  Theodore,  he  was  polite  and 
friendly  towards  Rosette,  but  nothing  more. 

"What   shall  we  do  to-day,  Theodore  ?"  said   Ro- 

306 


«*•  •§»  *JU  «JU  «4U  •>§*  JL*  «JU  **r»  •«•  4*  *g*i»  «4»  »h*  *jy»  •I*  »■»  »g»  *g*  *g*  «4*  ***et« 

*«    «^*»      *r»     •>*>•     «*•      •"»»      •*<•       »T»       ■*•      *!<•      •#•     «W»    •*•    *V»    •»•    •««•    •*•    MM    *T»    •*•    •*»     *T<     MfV*    •*!— 

MADEMOISELLE    DE     MAUPIN 

sette.  "  Shall  we  go  boating  or  hunting  ?  What  think 
you  ?  " 

u  Let  us  hunt  -,  it  is  less  doleful  than  gliding  over 
the  water  in  company  with  a  bored  swan,  and  crushing 
lily  leaves  on  either  side.  Do  you  not  think  so, 
d'Albert  ?  " 

"  For  my  part  I  had  as  lief  glide  with  the  stream 
in  a  skiff  as  gallop  headlong  in  pursuit  of  a  poor  animal ; 
but  where  you  go,  I  go.  We  had  best  now  give 
Madame  Rosette  a  chance  to  get  up  and  put  on  a 
suitable  dress." 

Rosette  nodded  in  assent  and  rang  for  her  maid. 
The  two  young  men  went  off  arm  in  arm,  and  it  was 
easy  to  guess,  on  seeing  them  so  friendly,  that  the  one 
was  the  declared  lover  and  the  other  the  real  lover  of 
the  same  lady. 

Everybody  was  soon  ready.  D'Albert  and  Theodore 
were  already  on  horseback  in  the  outer  court,  when 
Rosette,  in  riding  dress,  appeared  at  the  top  of  the 
steps.  Her  dress  gave  her  a  gay  and  deliberate  look 
which  became  her  to  perfection.  She  sprang  into  her 
saddle  with  her  customary  quickness,  and  touched  with 
her  whip  her  horse,  that  went  off  at  score.  D'Albert 
spurred    his   and  soon  joined   her.      Theodore   allowed 

307 


•*»  «w\»  «vw  •*•  «**•    «nw  «**    •*•    •*!*•   ■*»   «r»  •»*  •"*•  •*•  •»•  •*•  •**  «*•  •»•  •*•  ••»  •W»  «w»  *•• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

them  to  get  ahead,  feeling  sure  of  overtaking  them 
when  he  pleased.  He  seemed  to  be  waiting  for 
something  and  often  turned  towards  the  mansion. 

"  Theodore  !  Theodore  !  Come  along !  Is  your 
horse  made  of  wood  ? "  cried  Rosette. 

Theodore  cantered  off  and  diminished  the  distance 
between  Rosette  and  himself,  though  he  still  remained 
in  the  rear. 

He  again  looked  towards  the  mansion,  which  was  be- 
ginning to  disappear  in  the  distance.  A  cloud  of  dust, 
in  which  moved  rapidly  something  not  yet  discernible, 
appeared  at  the  end  of  the  road.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  cloud  was  by  Theodore's  side,  and  opening,  like  the 
classic  clouds  of  the  Iliad,  showed  the  fresh  and  rosy 
face  of  the  mysterious  page. 

"  Come  along,  Theodore  !  "  cried  Rosette  for  the 
second  time  ;  "  spur  up  that  slow-coach  of  yours  and 
ride  beside  us." 

Theodore's  steed  had  been  impatiently  prancing  and 
plunging,  and  when  Theodore  gave  it  its  head  he 
quickly  caught  up  to  and  passed  Rosette  and  d'Albert, 
leaving  them  a  few  lengths  behind  him. 

"  Who  loves  me,  follows  me,"  called  out  Theodore, 
leaping  a   four-foot  fence.     "  Well,  Sir  Poet,"  he  said 

308 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

on  landing  on  the  other  side,  "  you  balk  at  the  jump, 
though  a  poet's  steed  is  said  to  be  winged." 

"  All  the  same,  I  had  rather  look  for  a  gate,"  said 
d'  Albert,  with  a  smile.  "  I  have  but  one  head  to  break ; 
had  I  more,  I  should  try  the  jump  too." 

u  So  no  one  loves  me,  since  no  one  follows  me," 
said  Theodore,  drawing  down  still  more  the  drawn- 
down  corners  of  his  mouth. 

The  little  page  looked  at  him  reproachfully  out  of 
his  great  blue  eyes  and  pressed  his  knees  to  his  horse's 
flanks. 

The  horse  made  a  prodigious  leap. 

u  Yes,  one  does,"  said  the  page  after  clearing  the 
fence. 

Rosette  cast  a  strange  look  at  the  lad  and  blushed  to 
the  eyes  ;  then  lashing  her  mare  across  the  neck  she 
also  leapt  the  bright-green  wooden  fence  which  bounded 
the  avenue. 

"  And  I,  Theodore,  —  do  you  think  I  do  not  love 
you  ?  " 

The  lad  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  her  and  drew 
nearer  to  Theodore. 

D'Albert  was  already  half-way  down  the  avenue 
and  missed  the  whole  scene,  for    it  has    at  all  times 


- 


3°9 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

been  the  privilege  of  fathers,  husbands,  and  lovers 
to  be  blind. 

u  Isnabel,"  said  Theodore,  "  you  are  crazy ;  and  so 
are  you,  Rosette.  You  did  not  take  room  enough  for 
your  jump,  Isnabel  ->  and  you,  Rosette,  nearly  caught 
your  dress  on  the  posts.  You  might  have  killed 
yourself." 

"What  would  that  have  mattered  ?  "  replied  Rosette, 
with  so  sad  and  melancholy  an  accent  that  Isnabel 
forgave  her  for  having  also  leaped  the  fence. 

They  rode  on  for  some  little  time  and  reached  the 
cross-roads  where  they  were  to  join  the  pack  and  the 
huntsmen.  Six  avenues,  cut  in  the  overarching  forest, 
ended  at  a  little  hexagonal  stone  tower,  on  each  face  of 
which  was  engraved  the  name  of  the  road  which  ended 
there.  The  trees  rose  to  such  a  height  that  they 
seemed  to  seek  to  catch  the  light  wisps  of  cloud  driven 
past  their  tops  by  a  fresh  breeze  ;  the  grass  was  tall 
and  thick  ;  dense  brushwood  offered  retreats  and  holds 
to  the  game,  and  everything  promised  a  successful  hunt. 
It  was  a  regular  old-fashioned  forest,  with  old  oaks  past 
the  century  mark,  such  as  are  not  now  met  with,  since 
trees  are  no  longer  planted  and  one  cannot  wait  for 
those  already  planted  to  grow  up  ;  an  ancestral  forest, 

310 


•J/»#A*  #4*  #i/«  *A»  »§*  *A*  *|r*  «A»  JU  «l««A»«X»«4«<il««iA««4»«JUr|*«X»r|^  ritef**!* 
•»v»  •/«•  #!>•   w*»   «*»•    •»■<•   •*«•    *r»    «*U    mm    *»    «*•  •**  «/r*  •*»  «m*  «M  ».*->  %*»  «w  «*»   **<  «*»  •*• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE     MAUPIN 

planted  by  great-grandfathers  for  the  fathers,  by  the 
fathers  for  the  grandsons,  with  roads  of  marvellous 
width,  an  obelisk  topped  by  a  round  ball,  a  fountain 
with  rock-work,  the  inevitable  pool,  and  the  keepers 
with  hair  powdered  white,  buck-skin  breeches  and  sky- 
blue  coats, — a  thick,  dark  forest,  against  which  stand 
out  splendidly  the  white-satin  cruppers  of  Wouver- 
man's  big  horses,  and  the  big  mouths  of  the  Dam- 
pierre  horns  which  Parrocel  is  so  fond  of  putting  on 
the  back  of  huntsmen. 

A  multitude  of  dog's  tails,  crescent  and  scythe- 
shaped,  were  wagging  in  a  cloud  of  light  dust.  The 
signal  was  given,  the  hounds,  straining  at  their  leash, 
uncoupled,  and  the  hunt   began. 

We  shall  not  describe  in  detail  the  turnings  and 
twistings  of  the  stag  through  the  forest  ;  we  do  not 
even  know  whether  it  was  a  stag  of  ten  tines,  spite  of 
all  our  investigations  —  which  is  really  a  great  pity. 
We  are  of  opinion,  however,  that  in  so  old,  so  thick, 
so  lordly  a  forest  there  could  be  royal  stags  only,  and  we 
see  no  reason  why  the  one  after  which  were  galloping, 
on  differently  coloured  steeds  and  non  passihus  aquis,  the 
four  principal  characters  of  this  illustrious  novel,  should 
not  have  been  an  antlered  monarch  of  the  glade. 

311 


MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

The  stag  ran  like  a  deer,  naturally  spurred  on  to 
top  speed  by  the  twenty-five  couples  of  hounds  at  his 
heels.  The  pace  was  so  fast  that  the  pack  gave 
tongue  but  at  intervals. 

Theodore,  being  best  mounted  and  the  best  rider, 
rode  close  to  the  hounds  with  incredible  ardour; 
d'Albert  was  not  far  from  him.  Rosette  and  Isnabel 
followed  at  a  distance  which  increased  every  moment, 
and  ere  long  was  such  that  they  could  not  hope  to 
catch  up  with  the  leaders. 

"  Suppose  we  pull  up,"  said  Rosette,  "  and  breathe 
the  horses  a  bit  ?  The  hunt  is  swinging  round  the 
pond,  and  I  know  of  a  short  cut  by  which  we  can  be 
in  at  the  death  as  soon  as  the  rest." 

Isnabel  reined  in  his  little  mountain-horse,  which 
bent  low  its  head,  tossing  over  its  eyes  the  hanging 
locks  of  its  mane,  and  pawed  the  ground. 

This  little  horse  contrasted  strongly  with  Rosette's ; 
it  was  black  as  a  coal,  the  other  milk-white ;  its  full 
mane  and  tail  were  wild-looking ;  Rosette's  had  its 
mane  plaited  with  blue  ribbon  and  its  tail  combed  out 
and  curled.  It  looked  like  a  unicorn,  and  the  other 
like  a  poodle. 

The    same  contrast   was   noticeable  in    the    riders. 

312 


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MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

Rosette's  hair  was  as  dark  as  Isnabel's  was  fair ; 
she  had  strongly  marked  eyebrows,  while  the  page's 
were  scarce  darker  than  his  skin  and  resembled  the 
bloom  of  peach.  The  complexion  of  the  one  was 
as  dazzling  and  unmistakable  as  the  noon-day  light  ; 
the  other's  resembled  the  blush  and  transparency  of 
dawn. 

"  Shall  we  try  to  catch  up  with  the  hounds  now  ?  " 
said  Isnabel  to  Rosette.  "  Our  horses  have  had  time 
to  get  their  second  wind." 

"  Let  us  away,  then,"  replied  the  lovely  horse- 
woman >  and  they  galloped  off  down  a  rather  narrow 
cross-path  leading  to  the  pond.  The  two  horses  gal- 
loped side  by  side,  almost  filling  up  the  pathway. 

On  Isnabel's  side  a  gnarled  and  knotty  trunk 
stretched  out  a  great  limb  which  seemed  to  threaten 
the  horsemen.     The  lad  did  not  see  it. 

"  Take  care,"  cried  Rosette  ;  "  lie  low,  or  you  will 
be  thrown  !  " 

The  advice  came  just  too  late  ;  the  limb  caught 
Isnabel  in  the  waist  and  he  lost  his  stirrups.  The  horse 
galloping  on  and  the  limb  not  bending,  the  lad 
was  pulled  out  of  the  saddle  and  thrown  heavily, 
fainting    with    the    shock.      Rosette,    greatly    terrified, 

3*3 


r|r»«4»«4*  *4*  **"   •&*  •**  *A*  «A*  *Jk  »i**l««JU<4*  ****I*  JU#i*»i%#j|U  ***  «|»«Jlt«J*, 
v»\»  ««v»    «w*    •-»<•    V*J     •»"*•    *£*     vv*    vr»    •m»    ■?•    .wa  •*<•  *T«  «>*•  *r*    nw»  im  «*W  •**  «w    ww   vw*  «<r# 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

dismounted    swiftly    and    hastened    to    the    apparently 
lifeless  page. 

His  cap  had  fallen  off,  and  his  beautiful  fair  hair  fell 
in  waves  upon  the  sandy  soil.  His  small  hands, 
opened  wide,  seemed  to  be  of  wax,  so  pale  were  they. 
Rosette  knelt  by  him  and  tried  to  bring  him  back  to 
consciousness.  She  had  neither  salts  nor  strong  waters 
with  her  and  was  greatly  embarrassed.  At  last  she 
perceived  a  fairly  deep  rut  in  which  rain  water  had 
accumulated  and  settled.  She  dipped  her  fingers  in  it, 
greatly  to  the  terror  of  a  little  frog,  the  naiad  of  that 
wave,  and  splashed  a  few  drops  on  the  blue  temples 
of  the  young  page,  who  did  not  seem  to  feel  them,  the 
beads  coursing  down  his  blanched  cheeks  like  a  sylph's 
tears  down  a  lily  leaf.  Rosette,  thinking  his  clothes 
needed  loosening,  unbuckled  his  belt,  unbuttoned  his 
tunic,  and  undid  his  shirt  to  enable  him  to  breathe 
more  freely.  She  then  beheld  a  sight  which,  to  a  man, 
would  have  been  the  most  delightful  of  surprises,  but 
which  did  not  appear  to  cause  her  pleasure,  for  her 
brow  bent  and  her  lip  trembled  slightly — she  beheld 
a  very  white  bosom,  not  yet  fully  developed,  but  which 
held  out  the  most  enchanting  promises  and  already 
fulfilled  many  :   round,  polished,  ivory  breasts,  to  speak 

3*4 


•&%«§*#jL*  ei,*  ***  •"!♦  •£*  *lr»  ***  •*"•  *A*  **»  *!-•  •*•  »4*  •*»  »1*  •!-•  «4»  **♦  r4^  «4*  #jU**» 

«w%»  am*    «*w    wr*    «im    m    •*♦     •»»»     •>*»    •»»    •*•    *v»  «T»  •*»  •*"•  •*«•  «*•  •*•   •**»  •*•  •»•    xrt    «*>#  **• 

MADEMOISELLE    DE    MAUPIN 

like  Ronsard's  imitators,  most  delightful  to  gaze  upon 
and  more  delicious  still  to  kiss. 

"  A  woman  !  "  said  Rosette.  "  A  woman  !  Oh, 
Theodore  !  " 

Isnabel,  as  we  shall  still  call  her,  though  it  was  not 
her  name,  breathed  again  softly  and  half  opened  her 
heavy  eyelids.-  She  was  not  hurt  in  any  way,  —  merely 
stunned ;  she  sat  up,  and,  with  Rosette's  help,  was 
able  to  rise  and  mount  her  horse,  which,  on  feeling  its 
rider  fall,  had  stopped  short. 

They  rode  slowly  to  the  pond,  where  they  came  up 
with  the  hunt,  as  they  expected.  Rosette,  in  a  few 
words,  told  Theodore  what  had  happened.  The  latter 
changed  colour  more  than  once  in  the  course  of  the 
narration,  and  during  the  rest  of  the  ride  kept  close  by 
Isnabel's  side. 

The  party  returned  early  to  the  house,  and  the  day, 
which  had   begun   so   brightly,  ended   rather  sadly. 

Rosette  was  pensive  and  d'Albert  also  seemed  sunk 
in  thought.  The  reader  will  soon  learn  the  reason 
of  this. 

END    OF    VOL.    I 


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fcC'Q 


k 


3  7Q7n 


recto  Lp-uflS 


tAAB 


BECDLPPC^  ,^7 


JUIU 

JUN  1 6  1977 


DISCftW 


0","- 


o\sc 


» 


10m-ll,'50(2555)470 

H0V14 


07-URt 


1979 


/ 


3  1158  00323  4266 


